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30 3 & 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


* 




Copyright, 1916, by 
JOHN LANE COMPANY 



SEP 25 1916 


Press of 

J. J. Little & Ives Co. 
New York, U.S.A. 


©CI.A437809 


TO 


ARTHUR BLACK 

IN MEMORY OF OLD TIMES 


/ 


I 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 



THE HAMPSTEAD 
MYSTERY 


CHAPTER I 

“Hallo! Is that Hampstead Police Station ?” 

“Yes. Who are you?” 

“Detective-Inspector Chippenfield of Scotland Yard. 
Tell Inspector Seldon I want him, and be quick about it.” 

“Yes, sir. Hang on, sir. I’ll put you through to him 
at once.” 

Detective-Inspector Chippenfield, of Scotland Yard, 
waited with the receiver held to his ear. While he waited 
he scrutinised keenly a sheet of paper which lay on the 
desk in front of him. It was a flimsy, faintly-ruled sheet 
from a cheap writing-pad, blotted and soiled, and covered 
with sprawling letters which had been roughly printed 
at irregular intervals as though to hide the identity of the 
writer. But the letters formed words, and the words 
read : 

SIR HORACE 

W AS MURPER. CD Z- AST NISHT 

\NHO DTD IT IDONT 11‘NoW.Sojt 

N 0 l»$ B 7WTNS JO FI Np 
OU.7 WHO I AM 


9 


10 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


You will fiNj> his PEtKO 
30DY l/V TH£ U8RMY A 7 
H/ \reikS$fLcoK 

H - B WAS SHOT 
TH£ HfA'RT 

“Hallo l” 

“Is that you, Inspector Chippenfield ?” 

“Yes. That you, Seldon? Have you heard anything 
of a murder out your way?” 

“Can’t say that I have. Have you?” 

“Yes. We have information that Sir Horace Few- 
banks has been murdered — shot.” 

“Mr. Justice Fewbanks shot — murdered!” Inspector 
Seldon gave expression to his surprise in a long low 
whistle which travelled through the telephone. Then 
he added, after a moment’s reflection, “There must be 
some mistake. He is away.” 

“Away where?” 

“In Scotland. He went there for the Twelfth — when 
the shooting season opened.” 

“Are you sure of that?” 

“Yes; he rang me up the day before he left to ask 
us to keep an eye on his house while he was away.” 

There was a pause at the Scotland Yard end of the 
telephone. Inspector Chippenfield was evidently think- 
ing hard. 

“We may have been hoaxed,” he said at length. “But 
I have been ringing up his house and can get no answer. 
You had better send up a couple of men there at once 
— better still, go yourself. It is a matter which may 
require tactful handling. Let me know, and I’ll come 
out immediately if there is anything wrong. Stay ! How 
long will it take you to get up to the house ?” 

“Not more than fifteen minutes — in a taxi.” 

“Well, I’ll ring you up at the house in half an hour. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


ii 


Should our information be correct see that everything 
is left exactly as you find it till I arrive. ,, 

Inspector Seldon hung up the receiver of his tele- 
phone, bundled up the papers scattered on his desk, 
closed it, and stepped out of his office into the next 
room. 

“Anyone about?” he hurriedly asked the sergeant who 
was making entries in the charge-book. 

“Yes, sir. I saw Flack here a moment ago.” 

“Get him at once and call a taxi. Scotland Yard’s rung 
through to say they’ve received a report that Sir Horace 
Fewbanks has been murdered.” 

“Murdered?” echoed the sergeant in a tone of keen 
interest. “Who told Scotland Yard that?” 

“I don’t know. Who was on that beat last night?” 

“Flack, sir. Was Sir Horace murdered in his own 
house ? I thought he was in Scotland.” 

“So did I, but he may have returned — ah, here’s the 
taxi.” 

Inspector Seldon had been waiting on the steps for 
the appearance of a cab from the rank round the 
corner in response to the shrill blast which the sergeant 
had blown on his whistle. The sergeant went to the 
door of the station leading into the yard and sharply 
called : 

“Flack!” 

In response a police-constable, without helmet or tunic, 
came running up the steps from the basement, which 
was used as a gymnasium. 

“Seldon wants you. Get on your tunic as quick as 
you can. He is in a devil of a hurry.” 

Inspector Seldon was seated in the taxi-cab when 
Flack appeared. He had been impatiently drumming 
his fingers on the door of the cab. 

“Jump in, man,” he said angrily. “What has kept you 
all this time?” 

Flack breathed stertorously to show that he had been 
running and was out of breath, but he made no reply 


12 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


to the official rebuke. Inspector Seldon turned to him 
and remarked severely: 

“Why didn’t you let me know that Sir Horace Few- 
banks had returned from Scotland?” 

Flack looked astonished. 

“But he hasn’t returned, sir,” he said. “He’s away 
for a month at least,” he ventured to add. 

“Who told you that?” 

“The housemaid at Riversbrook — before he went 
away.” 

“H’m.” The inspector’s next question contained a 
moral rebuke rather than an official one. “You’re a 
married man, Flack?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“So the housemaid told you he was going away for 
a month. Well, she ought to know. When did she 
tell you?” 

“A week ago yesterday, sir. She told me that all the 
servants except the butler were going down to Dellmere 
the next day — that is Sir Horace’s country place — and 
that Sir Horace was going to Scotland for the shooting 
and would put in some weeks at Dellmere after the 
shooting season was over.” 

“And are you sure he hasn’t returned?” 

“Quite, sir. I saw Hill, the butler, only yesterday 
morning, and he told me that his master was sure 
to be in Scotland for at least a month longer.” 

“It’s very strange,” muttered the inspector, half to 
himself. “It will be a deuced awkward situation to face 
if Scotland Yard has been hoaxed.” 

“Beg your pardon, sir, but is there anything wrong 
about Sir Horace?” 

“Yes. Scotland Yard has received a report that he 
has been murdered.” 

Flack’s surprise was so great that it lifted the lid 
of official humility which habitually covered his natural 
feelings. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


13 

“Murdered!” he exclaimed. “Sir Horace Fewbanks 
murdered? You don’t say so!” 

“But I do say so. I’ve just said so,” retorted In- 
spector Seldon irritably. He was angry at the fact that 
the information, whether true or false, had gone direct 
to Scotland Yard instead of reaching him first. 

“When was he murdered, sir?” asked Flack. 

“Last night — when you were on that beat.” 

Flack paled at this remark. 

“Last night, sir?” he cried. 

“Don’t repeat my words like a parrot,” ejaculated 
the inspector peevishly. “Didn’t you notice anything 
suspicious when you were along there?” 

“No, sir. Was he murdered in his own house?” 

“His dead body is supposed to be lying there now 
in the library,” said Inspector Seldon. “How Scotland 
Yard got wind of it is more than I know. We ought 
to have heard of it before them. How many times did 
you go along there last night?” 

“Twice, sir. About eleven o’clock, and then about 
three.” 

“And there was nothing suspicious — you saw no 
one?” 

“I saw Mr. Roberts and his lady coming home from 
the theatre. But he lives at the other end of Tanton 
Gardens. And I saw the housemaid at Mr. Fielding’s 
come out to the pillar-box. That was a few minutes 
after eleven. I didn’t see anybody at all the second time.” 

“Nobody at the judge’s place — no taxi, or anything 
like that?” 

“No, sir.” 

The taxi-cab turned swiftly into the shady avenue of 
Tanton Gardens, where Sir Horace Fewbanks lived, and 
in a few moments pulled up outside of Riversbrook. 
The house stood a long way back from the road in its 
own grounds. Inspector Seldon and Flack passed rapidly 
through the grounds and reached the front door of the 
mansion. There was nobody about; the place seemed 


14 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


deserted, and the blinds were down on the ground-floor 
windows. Inspector Seldon knocked loudly at the front 
door with the big, old-fashioned brass knocker, and rang 
the bell. He listened intently for a response, but no 
sound followed except the sharp note of the electric 
bell as Flack rang it again while Inspector Seldon bent 
down with his ear at the keyhole. Then the inspector 
stepped back and regarded the house keenly for a 
moment or two. 

“Put your finger on that bell and keep on ringing it, 
Flack/’ he said suddenly. “I see that some of the 
blinds are down, but there’s one on the first floor which 
is partly up. It looks as though the house had been 
shut up and somebody had come back unexpectedly.” 

“Perhaps it’s Hill, the butler,” said Flack. 

“If he’s inside he ought to answer the bell. But keep 
on ringing while I knock again.” 

The heavy brass knocker again reverberated on the 
thick oak door, and Inspector Seldon placed his ear 
against the keyhole to ascertain if any sound was to be 
heard. 

“Take your finger off that bell, Flack,” he commanded. 
“I cannot hear whether anybody is coming or not.” 
He remained in a listening attitude for half a minute 
and then plied the knocker again. Again he listened for 
footsteps within the house. “Ring again, Flack. Keep 
on ringing while I go round the house to see if there is 
any way I can get in. I may have to break a window. 
Don’t move from here.” 

Inspector Seldon went quickly round the side of the 
house, trying the windows as he went. Towards the 
rear of the house, on the west side, he came across a 
curious abutment of masonry jutting out squarely from 
the wall. On the other side of this abutment, which 
gave the house something of an unfinished appearance, 
were three French windows close together. The blinds 
of these windows were closely drawn, but the inspec- 
tor’s keen eye detected that one of the catches had been 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


15 

broken, and there were marks of some instrument on the 
outside woodwork. 

“This looks like business,” he muttered. * 

He pulled open the window, and walked into the room. 
The light of an afternoon sun showed him that the apart- 
ment was a breakfast room, well and solidly furnished in 
an old-fashioned way, with most of the furniture in cov- 
ers, as though the occupants of the house were away. The 
daylight penetrated to the door at the far end of the 
room. It was wide open, and revealed an empty pas- 
sage. Inspector Seldon walked into the passage. The 
drawn blinds made the passage seem quite dark after 
the bright August sunshine outside, but he produced an 
electric torch, and by its light he saw that the passage 
ran into the main hall. 

His footsteps echoed in the empty house. The electric 
bell rang continuously as Flack pressed it outside. In- 
spector Seldon walked along the passage to the hall, 
flashing his torch into each room he passed. He saw 
nothing, and went to the front door to admit Flack. 

“That is enough of that noise, Flack,” he said. “Come 
inside and help me search the house above. It’s empty 
on this floor so far as I’ve been over it. If you find 
anything call me, and mind you do not touch anything. 
Where did you say the library was ?” 

“I don’t know, sir.” 

“Well, look about you on the ground floor while I 
go upstairs. Call me if you hear anything.” 

Inspector Seldon mounted the stairs swiftly in order to 
continue his search. 

The staircase was a wide one, with broad shallow 
steps, thickly carpeted, and a handsome carved ma- 
hogany baluster. The inspector, flashing his torch as he 
ran up, saw a small electric light niche in the wall before 
he reached the first landing. The catch of the light was 
underneath, and Inspector Seldon turned it on. The light 
revealed that the stairs swept round at that point to the 
landing of the first floor, which was screened from view 


16 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

by heavy velvet hangings, partly caught back by the 
bent arm of a marble figure of Diana, which faced down- 
stairs, with its other arm upraised and about to launch 
a hunting spear. By this graceful device the curtains 
were drawn back sufficiently to give access to the corri- 
dor on the first floor. 

Inspector Seldon looked closely at the figure and the 
hangings. Something strange about the former arrested 
his eye. , It was standing awry on its pedestal — was, 
indeed, almost toppling over. He looked up and saw 
that one of the curtains supported by the arm hung 
loosely from one of the curtain rings. It was as though 
some violent hand had torn at the curtain in passing, 
almost dragging it from the pole and precipitating the 
figure down the stairs. Immediately beyond the landing, 
in the corridor, was a door on the right, flung wide open. 

The inspector entered the room with the open door. 
It was a large room forming part of the front of the 
house — a lofty large room, partly lighted by the half- 
draWn blind of one of the windows. One side was lined 
with bookshelves. In the corner of the room farthest 
from the door, was a roll-top desk, which was open. In 
the centre of the room was a table, and a huddled up 
figure was lying beside it, in a dark pool of blood which 
had oozed into the carpet. 

The inspector stepped quickly back to the landing. 

“Flack !” he called, and unconsciously his voice dropped 
to a sharp whisper in the presence of death. “Flack, come 
here. ,, 

When Flack reached the door of the library he saw 
his chief kneeling beside the prostrate body of a dead 
man. The body lay clear of the table, near the foot 
of an arm-chair. Instinctively Flack walked on tip- 
toe to his chief. 

“Is he dead, sir ?” he asked. 

“Cold and stiff,” replied the inspector, in a hushed 
voice. “He’s been dead for hours.” 

Flack noted that the body was fully dressed, and he 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


1 7 


saw a dark stain above the breast where the blood had 
welled forth and soaked the dead man’s clothes and 
formed a pool on the carpet beside him. 

Inspector Seldon opened the dead man’s clothes. Over 
his heart he found the wound from which the blood 
had flowed. 

“There it is, Flack,” he said, touching the wound lightly 
with his finger. “It doesn’t take a big wound to kill a 
man.” 

As he spoke the sharp ring of a telephone bell from 
downstairs reached them. 

“That’s Inspector Chippenfield,” said Inspector Sel- 
don, rising to his feet. “Stay here. Flack, till I go and 
speak to him.” 


CHAPTER II 


“Six-thirty edition: High Court Judge murdered !” 

It was not quite 5 p. m., but the enterprising section 
of the London evening newspapers had their 6.30 edi- 
tions on sale in the streets. To such a pitch had the 
policy of giving the public what it wants been elevated 
„ that the halfpenny newspapers were able to give the 
people of London the news each afternoon a full ninety 
minutes before the edition was supposed to have left 
the press. The time of the edition was boldly printed 
in the top right-hand corner of each paper as a guar- 
antee of enterprise if not of good faith. On practical 
enterprise of this kind does journalism forge ahead. 
Some people who have been bred up in a conservative 
atmosphere sneer at such journalistic enterprise. They 
affect to regard as unreliable the up-to-date news con- 
tained in newspapers which are unable to tell the truth 
about the hands of the clock. 

From the cries of the news-boys and from the an- 
nouncements on the newspaper bills which they dis- 
played, it was assumed by those with a greedy appetite 
for sensations that a judge of the High Court had been 
murdered on the bench. Such an appetite easily swal- 
lowed the difficulty created by the fact that the Law 
Courts had been closed for the long vacation. In imagi- 
nation they saw a dramatic scene in court — the disap- 
pointed demented desperate litigant suddenly drawing a 
revolver and with unerring aim shooting the judge 
through the brain before the deadly weapon could be 
wrenched from his hands. But though the sensation 
created by the murder of a judge of the High Court was 
destined to grow and to be fed by unexpected develop- 
ments, the changing phases of which monopolised public 
18 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


19 


attention throughout England on successive occasions, 
there was little in the evening papers to satisfy the appe- 
tite for sensation. In journalistic vernacular “they were 
late in getting on to it,” and therefore their reference to 
the crime occupied only a few lines in the “stop press 
news,” beneath some late horse-racing results. The Eve- 
ning Courier, which was first in the streets with the news, 
made its announcement of the crime in the following 
Kt *ief paragraph: 

“The dead body of Sir Horace Fewbanks, the 
distinguished High Court judge, was found by the 
police at his home, Riversbrook in Tanton Gardens, 
Hampstead, to-day. Deceased had been shot through 
the heart. The police have no doubt that he was 
murdered.” 

But the morning papers of the following day did 
full justice to the sensation. It was the month of 
August when Parliament is “up,” the Law Courts closed 
for the long vacation, and when everybody who is any- 
body is out of London for the summer holidays. News 
was scarce and the papers vied, with one another in mak- 
ing the utmost of the murder of a High Court judge. 
Each of the morning papers sent out a man to Hamp- 
stead soon after the news of the crime reached their 
offices in the afternoon, and some of the more enter- 
prising sent two or three men. Scotland Yard and 
Riversbrook were visited by a succession of pressmen 
representing the London dailies, the provincial press, 
and the news agencies. 

The two points on which the newspaper accounts of 
the tragedy laid stress were the mysterious letter which 
had been sent to Scotland Yard stating that Sir Horace 
Fewbanks had been murdered, and the mystery sur- 
rounding the sudden return of Sir Horace from Scot- 
land to his town house. On the first point there was 
room for much varied speculation. Why was informa- 


20 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


tion about the murder sent to Scotland Yard, and why 
was it sent in a disguised way? If the person who had 
sent this letter had no connection with the crime and 
was anxious to help the police, why had he not gone 
to Scotland Yard personally and told the detectives all 
he knew about the tragedy? If, on the other hand, he 
was implicated in the crime, why had he informed 
the police at all ? 

It would have been to his interest as an accomplice — 
even if he had been an unwilling accomplice — to leave the 
crime undiscovered as long as possible, so that he and 
those with whom he had been associated might make their 
escape to another country. But he had sent his letter 
to Scotland Yard within a few hours of the perpetra- 
tion of the crime, and had not given the actual murderer 
time to get out of Engand. Was he not afraid of the 
vengeance the actual murderer would endeavour to exact 
for this disclosure which would enable the police to 
take measures to prevent his escape? 

No light was thrown on the cause of the murdered 
man’s sudden return from grouse-shooting in Scotland. 
The newspaper accounts, though they differed greatly 
in their statements, surmises, and suggestions concern- 
ing the tragedy, agreed on the point that Sir Horace 
had been a keen sportsman and was a very fine shot. 
In years past he had made a practice of spending the 
early part of the long vacation in Scotland, going there 
for the opening of the grouse season on the 12th of Au- 
gust. This year he had been one of a party of five who 
had rented Craigleith Hall in the Western Highlands, and 
after five days’ shooting he had announced that he had 
to go to London on urgent business, but would return 
in the course of a week or less. It was suggested in 
some of the newspaper accounts that an explanation of 
the cause of his return might throw some light on the 
murder. Inquiries were being made at Craigleith Hall 
to ascertain the reason for his journey to London, or 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


21 


whether any telegram had been received by him previous 
to his departure. 

The fact that one of the windows on the ground 
floor of Riversbrook had been found open was regarded 
as evidence that the murderer had broken into the house. 
Imprints of footsteps had been found in the ground 
outside the window, and the police had taken several 
casts of these; but whether the man who had broken 
into the house with the intention of committing burglary 
or murder was a matter on which speculation differed. 
If the murderer was a criminal who had broken into 
the house with the intention of committing a burglary, 
there could be no connection between the return of Sir 
Horace Fewbanks from Scotland and his murder. The 
burglary had probably been arranged in the belief that 
the house was empty, Sir Horace having sent the servants 
away to his country house in Dellmere a week before. 
But if the murderer was a burglar he had stolen nothing 
and had not even collected any articles for removal. 
The only thing that was known to be missing was the 
dead man’s pocket-book, but there was nothing to prove 
that the murderer had stolen it. It was quite possible 
that it had been lost or mislaid by Sir Horace; it was 
even possible that it had been stolen from him in the 
train during his journey from Scotland. 

It might be that while prowling through the rooms 
after breaking into the house, and before he had col- 
lected any goods for removal, the burglar had come 
unexpectedly on Sir Horace, and after shooting him 
had fled from the house. Only as a last resort to pre- 
vent capture did burglars commit murder. Had Sir 
Horace been shot while attempting to seize the intruder? 
The position in which the body was found did not 
support that theory. Two shots had been fired, the 
first of which had missed its victim, and entered the 
wall of the library. Evidently the murdered man had 
been hit by the second while attempting to leave the 
room. It was ingeniously suggested by the Daily Record 


22 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


that the murderer was a criminal who knew Sir Horace, 
and was known to him as a man who had been before 
him at Old Bailey. This would account for Sir Horace 
being ruthlessly shot down without having made any 
attempt to seize the intruder. The burglar would have 
felt on seeing Sir Horace in the room that he was 
identified, and that the only way of escaping ultimate 
arrest by the police was to kill the man who could put 
the police on his track. Mr. Justice Fewbanks had had 
the reputation of being a somewhat severe judge, and it 
was possible that some of the criminals who had been 
sentenced by him at Old Bailey entertained a grudge 
against him. 

The question of when the murder was committed was 
regarded as important. Dr. Slingsby, of the Home Office, 
who had examined the body shortly after it was dis- 
covered by the police, was of opinion that death had 
taken place at least twelve hours before and probably 
longer than that. His opinion on this point lent support 
to the theory that the murder had been committed before 
midnight on Wednesday. It was the Daily Record that 
seized on the mystery contained in the facts that the 
body when discovered was fully clothed and that the 
electric lights were not turned on. If the murder was 
committed late at night how came it that there were 
no lights in the empty house when the police discovered 
the body ? Had the murderer, after shooting his victim, 
turned out the lights so that on the following day no 
suspicion would be created as would be the case if any- 
one saw lights burning in the house in the day-time? 
If he had done so, he was a cool hand. But if the 
burglar was such a cool hand as to stop to turn out the 
lights after the murder why did he not also stop to 
collect some valuables? Was he afraid that in attempt- 
ing to get rid of them to a “fence” or “drop” he 
would practically reveal himself as the murderer and 
so place himself in danger in case the police offered 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


23 

a reward for the apprehension of the author of the 
crime ? 

If Sir Horace had gone to bed before the murderer 
entered the house it would have been natural to expect 
no lights turned on. But he had returned unexpectedly; 
there were no servants in the house, and there was no 
bed ready for him. In any case, if he intended stopping 
in the empty house instead of going to a hotel he 
would have been wearing a sleeping suit when his body 
was discovered ; or, at most, he would be only partially 
dressed if he had got up on hearing somebody moving 
about the house. But the body was fully dressed, even 
to collar and tie. It was absurd to suppose that the 
victim had been sitting in the darkness when the mur- 
derer appeared. 

Another difficult problem Scotland Yard had to face 
was the discovery of the person who had sent them 
the news of the murder. How had Scotland Yard’s 
anonymous correspondent learned about the murder, and 
what were his motives in informing the police in the 
way he had done? Was he connected with the crime? 
Had the murderer a companion with him when he broke 
into Riversbrook for the purpose of burglary? That 
seemed to be the most probable explanation. The second 
man had been horrified at the murder, and desired to 
disassociate himself from it so that he might escape the 
gallows. The only alternative was to suppose that the 
murderer had confessed his crime to some one, and that 
his confidant had lost no time in informing the police 
of the tragedy. 

The newspaper accounts of the case threw some light 
on the private and domestic afifairs of the victim. He 
was a widower with a grown-up daughter; his wife, 
a daughter of the late Sir James Goldsworthy, who 
changed his ancient family patronymic from Granville 
to Goldsworthy on inheriting the great fortune of an 
American kinsman, had died eight years before. Sir 
Horace’s Hampstead household consisted of a house- 


24 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


keeper, butler, chauffeur, cook, housemaid, kitchenmaid 
and gardener. With the exception of the butler the 
servants had been sent the previous week to Sir Horace’s 
country house in Dellmere, Sussex. It appeared that 
Miss Fewbanks spent most of her time at the country 
house and came up to London but rarely. She was at 
Dellmere when the murder was committed, and had 
been under the impression that her father was in Scot- 
land. According to a report received from the police 
at Dellmere the first intimation that Miss Fewbanks had 
received of the tragic death of her father came from 
them. Naturally, she was prostrated with grief at the 
tragedy. 

The butler who had been left behind in charge of 
Riversbrook was a man named Hill, but he was not 
in the house on the night of the tragedy. He was a 
married man, and his wife and child lived in Camden 
Town, where Mrs. Hill kept a confectionery shop. Hill’s 
master had given him permission to live at home for 
three weeks while he was in Scotland. The house in 
Tanton Gardens had been locked up and most of the 
valuables had been sent to the bank for safe-keeping, 
but there were enough portable articles of value in the 
house to make a good haul for any burglar. Hill had 
instructions to visit the house three times a week for the 
purpose of seeing that everything was safe and in order. 
He had inspected the place on Wednesday morning, and 
everything was as it had been left when his master went 
to Scotland. Sir Horace Fewbanks had returned to Lon- 
don on Wednesday evening, reaching St. Pancras by the 
6.30 train. Hill was unaware that his master was re- 
turning, and the first he learned of the murder was the 
brief announcement in the evening papers on Thursday. 


CHAPTER III 


Inspector Chippenfield, who had come into promi- 
nence in the newspapers as the man who had caught the 
gang who had stolen Lady Gladville’s jewels — which in- 
cluded the most costly pearl necklace in the world — was 
placed in charge of the case. It was to his success in this 
famous case that he owed his promotion to Inspector. 
He had the assistance of his subordinate, Detective Rolfe. 
So generous were the newspaper references to the acumen 
of these two terrors of the criminal classes that it was to 
be assumed that anything which inadvertently escaped 
one of them would be pounced upon by the other. 

On the morning after the discovery of the murdered 
man’s body, the two officers made their way to Tanton 
Gardens from the Hampstead tube station. Inspector 
Chippenfield was a stout man of middle age, with a 
red face the colour of which seemed to be accentuated 
by the daily operation of removing every vestige of 
hair from it. He had prominent grey eyes with 
which he was accustomed to stare fiercely when he de- 
sired to impress a suspected person with what some of 
the newspapers had referred to as “his penetrating 
glance.” His companion, Rolfe, was a tall well-built man 
in the early thirties. Like most men in a subordinate 
position, Rolfe had not a high opinion of the abilities 
of his immediate superiors. He was sure that he could 
fill the place of any one of them better than it was 
filled by its occupant. He believed that it was the policy 
of superiors to keep junior men back, to stand in their 
light, and to take all the credit for their work. He 
was confident that he was destined to make a name for 
himself in the detective world if only he were given 
the chance. 


25 


26 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


When Inspector Chippenfield had visited Riversbrook 
the previous afternoon, Rolfe had not been selected as 
his assistant. A careful inspection of the house and 
especially of the room in which the tragedy had been 
committed had been made by the inspector. He had 
then turned his attention to the garden and the grounds 
surrounding the house. 

Whatever he had discovered and what theories he had 
formed were not disclosed to anyone, not even his assist- 
ant. He believed that the proper way to train a sub- 
ordinate was to let him collect his own information and 
then test it for him. This method enabled him to profit 
by his subordinate’s efforts and to display a superior 
knowledge when the other propounded a theory by which 
Inspector Chippenfield had also been misled. 

When they arrived at the house in which the crime 
had been committed, they found a small crowd of people 
ranging from feeble old women to babies in arms, and 
including a large proportion of boys and girls of school 
age, collected outside the gates, staring intently through 
the bars towards the house, which was almost hidden by 
trees. The morbid crowd made way for the two officers 
and speculated on their mission. The general impres- 
sion was that they were the representatives of a fashion- 
able firm of undertakers and had come to measure the 
victim for his coffin. Inside the grounds the Scotland 
Yard officers encountered a police-constable who was 
on guard for the purpose of preventing inquisitive 
strangers penetrating to the house. 

“Well, Flack,” said Inspector Chippenfield in a tone in 
which geniality was slightly blended with official su- 
periority. “How are you to-day?” 

“I’m very well indeed, sir,” replied the police-con- 
stable. He knew that the state of his health was not 
a matter of deep concern to the inspector, but such is 
the vanity of human nature that he was pleased at the 
inquiry. The fact that there was a murdered man in 
the house gave mournful emphasis to the transience of 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


27 

human life, and made Police-Constable Flack feel a 
glow of satisfaction in being very well indeed. 

Inspector Chippenfield hesitated a moment as if in 
deep thought. The object of his hesitation was to give 
Flack an opportunity of imparting any information that 
had come to him while on guard. The inspector be- 
lieved in encouraging people to impart information but 
regarded it as subversive of the respect due to him to 
appear to be in need of any. As Flack made no attempt 
to carry the conversation beyond the state of his health, 
Inspector Chippenfield came to the conclusion that he 
was an extremely dull policeman. He introduced Flack 
to Detective Rolfe and explained to the latter: 

“Flack was on duty on the night of the murder but 
heard no shots. Probably he was a mile or so away. 
But in a way he discovered the crime. Didn’t you, Flack? 
When we rang up Seldon he came up here and brought 
Flack with him. He’ll be only too glad to tell you any- 
thing you want to know.” 

Rolfe took an official notebook from a breast pocket 
and proceeded to question the police-constable. The in- 
spector made his way upstairs to the room in which the 
crime had been committed, for it was his system to seek 
inspiration in the scene of a crime. 

Tanton Gardens, a short private street terminating in 
a cul-de-sac, was in a remote part of Hampstead. The 
daylight appearance of the street betokened wealth and 
exclusiveness. The roadway which ran between its broad 
white-gravelled footwalks was smoothly asphalted for 
motor tyres; the avenues of great chestnut trees which 
flanked the footpaths served the dual purpose of afford- 
ing shade in summer and screening the houses of 
Tanton Gardens from view. But after nightfall Tanton 
Gardens was a lonely and gloomy place, lighted only by 
one lamp, which stood in the high road more to mark the 
entrance to the street than as a guide to traffic along it, for 
its rays barely penetrated beyond the first pair of chest- 
nut trees. 


28 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


The houses in Tanton Gardens were in keeping with 
the street: they indicated wealth and comfort. They 
were of solid exterior, of a size that suggested a fine 
roominess, and each house stood in its own grounds. 
Riversbrook was the last house at the blind end of the 
street, and its east windows looked out on a wood which 
sloped down to a valley, the street having originally 
been an incursion into a large private estate, of which 
the wood alone remained. On the other side a tangled 
nutwood coppice separated the judge’s residence from 
its nearest neighbours, so the house was completely 
isolated. It stood well back in about four acres of 
ground, and only a glimpse of it could be seen from the 
street front because of a small plantation of ornamental 
trees, which grew in front of the house and hid it 
almost completely from view. When the carriage drive 
which wound through the plantation had been passed 
the house burst abruptly into view — a big, rambling 
building of uncompromising ugliness. Its architecture 
was remarkable. The impression which it conveyed was 
that the original builder had been prevented by lack of 
money from carrying out his original intention of erecting 
a fine symmetrical house. The first story was well enough 
— an imposing, massive, colonnaded front in the Greek 
style, with marble pillars supporting the entrance. But 
the two stories surmounting this failed lamentably to 
carry on the pretentious design. Viewed from the front, 
they looked as though the builder, after erecting the 
first story, had found himself in pecuniary straits, but, 
determined to finish his house somehow, had built two 
smaller stories on the solid edifice of the first. For the 
two second stories were not flush with the front of 
the house, but reared themselves from several feet be- 
hind, so that the occupants of the bedrooms on the first 
story could have used the intervening space as a balcony. 
Viewed from the rear, the architectural imperfections of 
the upper part of the house were in even stronger con- 
trast with the ornamental first story. Apparently the im- 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


29 


pecunious builder, by the time he had reached the rear, 
had completely run out of funds, for on the third floor 
he had failed altogether to build in one small room, and 
had left the unfinished brickwork unplastered. 

The large open space between the house and the fir 
plantation had once been laid out as an Italian garden 
at the cost of much time and money, but Sir Horace 
Fewbanks had lacked the taste or money to keep it 
up, and had allowed it to become a luxuriant wilder- 
ness, though the sloping parterres and the centre flower- 
beds still retained traces of their former beauty. The 
small lake in the centre, spanned by a rustic hand-bridge, 
was still inhabited by a few specimens of the carp fam- 
ily — sole survivors of the numerous gold-fish with which 
the original designer of the garden had stocked the lake. 

Sir Horace Fewbanks had rented Riversbrook as a 
town house for some years before his death, having 
acquired the lease cheaply from the previous possessor, 
a retired Indian civil servant, who had taken a dislike 
to the place because his wife had gone insane within its 
walls. Sir Horace had lived much in the house alone, 
though each London season his daughter spent a few 
weeks with him in order to preside over the few Society 
functions that her father felt it due to his position 
to give, and which generally took the form of solemn 
dinners to which he invited some of his brother judges, a 
few eminent barristers, a few political friends, and their 
wives. But rumour had whispered that the judge and 
his daughter had not got on too well together— that 
Miss Fewbanks was a strange girl who did not care for 
Society or the Society functions which most girls of her 
age would have delighted in, but preferred to spend her 
time on her father’s country estate, taking an interest 
in the villagers or walking the country-side with half a 
dozen dogs at her heels. 

Rumour had not spared the dead judge’s name. It 
was said of him that he was fond of ladies’ society, 
and especially of ladies belonging to a type which he 


30 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

could not ask his daughter to meet ; that he used to go 
out motoring, driving himself, after other people were 
in bed; and that strange scenes had taken place at 
Riversbrook. Flack had told his wife on several occa- 
sions that he had heard sounds of wild laughter and 
rowdy singing coming from Riversbrook as he passed 
along the street on his beat in the small hours of the 
morning. Several times in the early dawn Flack had 
seen two or three ladies in evening dress come down 
the carriage drive and enter a taxi-cab which had been 
summoned by telephone. 


CHAPTER IV 


When Rolfe had finished questioning Police-Constable 
Flack and joined his chief upstairs, the latter, who had 
been going through the private papers in the murdered 
man’s desk in the hope of alighting on a clue to the crime, 
received him genially. 

“Well,” he said, “what do you think of Flack?” 

Rolfe had obtained from the police-constable a 
straightforward story of what he had seen, and in this 
way had picked up some useful information about the 
crime which it would have taken a long time to extract 
from the inspector, but he was a sufficiently good de- 
tective to have learned that by disparaging the source 
of your information you add to your own reputation for 
acumen in drawing conclusions in regard to it. He 
nodded his head in a deprecating way and emitted a 
slight cough which was meant to express contempt. 

“It looks very much like a case of burglary and 
murder,” he said. 

He was anxious to know what theory his superior 
officer had formed. 

“And how do you fit in the letter advising us of the 
murder?” asked the inspector. 

He produced the letter from his pocket-book and 
looked at it earnestly. 

“There were two of them in it — one a savage ruffian 
who will stick at nothing, and the other a chicken- 
hearted specimen. They often work in pairs like that.” 

“So your theory is that one of the two shot him, and 
the other was so unnerved that he sent us the letter and 
put us on the track to save his own neck?” 

“Something like that.” 

“It is not impossible,” was the senior officer’s com- 

3i 


32 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


ment. “Mind you, I don’t say it is my theory. In fact, 
I am in no hurry to form one. I believe in going care- 
fully over the whole ground first, collecting all the clues 
and then selecting the right one.” 

Rolfe admitted that his chief’s way of setting to work 
to solve a mystery was an ideal one, but he made the 
reservation that it was a difficult one to put into opera- 
tion. He was convinced that the only way of finding 
the right clue was to follow up every one until it was 
proved to be a wrong one. 

Inspector Chippenfield continued his study of the 
mysterious message which had been sent to Scotland 
Yard. It was written on a sheet of paper which had 
been taken from a writing pad of the kind sold for a 
few pence by all stationers. It was flimsy and blue- 
lined, and the message it contained was smudged and 
badly printed. But to the inspector’s annoyance, there 
were no finger-prints on the paper. The finger-print ex- 
pert at Scotland Yard had examined it under the mi- 
croscope, but his search for finger-prints had been vain. 

“Depend upon it, we’ll hear from this chap again,” 
said the inspector, tapping the sheet of paper with a 
finger. “I think I may go so far as to say that this 
fellow thinks suspicion will be directed to him and he 
wants to save his neck.” 

“It’s a disguised hand,” said Rolfe. “Of course he 
printed it in order not to give us a specimen of his 
handwriting. There are telltale things about a man’s 
handwriting which give him away even when he tries to 
disguise it. But he’s tried to disguise even his print- 
ing. Look how irregular the letters are — some slanting 
to the right and some to the left, and some are upright. 
Look at the two different kinds of ‘U’s.’ ” 

“He’s used two different kinds of pens,” said Inspec- 
tor Chippenfield. “Look at the difference in the thick- 
ness of the letters.” 

“The sooner he writes again the better,” said Rolfe. 
“I am curious to know what he’ll say next.” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


33 


My idea is to find out who he is and make him 
speak,” said the inspector. “Speaking is quicker than 
writing. I could frighten more out of him in ten min- 
utes than he would give away voluntarily in a month 
of Sundays.” 

Again Rolfe had to admit that his chief’s plan to 
get at the truth was an ideal one. 

“Have you any idea who he is?” he asked. 

Inspector Chippenfield had brought his methods too 
near to perfection to make it possible for him to fall into 
an open trap. 

“I won’t be very long putting my hand on him,” he 
said. 

“But this thing has been in the papers,” said Rolfe. 
“Don’t you think the murderer will bolt out of the 
country when he knows his mate is prepared to turn 
King’s evidence against him?” 

“Ah,” said Inspector Chippenfield, “I haven’t adopted 
your theory.” 

“Then you think that the man who wrote this note 
knew of the murder but doesn’t know who did it?” 

“Now you are going too far,” said Inspector Chip- 
penfield. 

The inspector was so wary about disclosing what 
was in his mind in regard to the letter that Rolfe, who 
disliked his chief very cordially, jumped to the conclu- 
sion that Inspector Chippenfield had no intelligible ideas 
concerning it. 

“If it was burglars they took nothing as far as we 
can ascertain up to the present,” said Inspector Chip- 
penfield after a pause. 

“They were surprised to find anyone in the house. 
And after the shot was fired they immediately bolted 
for fear the noise would attract attention.” 

“What knocks a hole in the burglar theory is the fact 
that Sir Horace was fully dressed when he was shot,” 
said the inspector. “Burglars don’t break into a house 


34 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


when there are lights about, especially after having been 
led to believe that the house was empty.” 

“So you think,” said Rolfe, “that the window was 
forced after the murder with the object of mislead- 
ing us.” 

“I haven’t said so,” replied the inspector. “All I am 
prepared to say is that even that was not impossible.” 

“It was forced from the outside,” continued Rolfe. 
“I’ve seen the marks of a jemmy on the window-sill. 
If it was forced after the murder the murderer was a 
cool hand.” 

“You can take it from me,” exclaimed Inspector 
Chippenfield with unexpected candour, “that he was a 
cool hand. We are going to have a bit of trouble in 
getting to the bottom of this, Rolfe.” 

“If anyone can get to the bottom of it, you can,” 
said Rolfe, who believed with Voltaire that speech was 
given us in order to enable us to conceal our thoughts. 

Inspector Chippenfield was so astonished at this hand- 
some compliment that he began to think he had under- 
rated Rolfe’s powers of discernment. His tone of cold 
official superiority immediately thawed. 

“There were two shots fired,” he said, “but whether 
both were fired by the murderer I don’t know yet. One 
of them may have been fired by Sir Horace. Just behind 
you in the wall is the mark of one of the bullets. I dug it 
out of the plaster yesterday and here it is.” He pro- 
duced from a waistcoat pocket a flattened bullet. “The 
other is inside him at present.” He waved his hand in 
the direction of the room in which the corpse lay. 

“Of course you cannot say yet whether both bullets 
are out of the same revolver?” said Rolfe. 

“Can’t tell till after the post-mortem,” said the in- 
spector. “And then all we can tell for certain is whether 
they are of the same pattern. They might be the same 
size, and yet be fired out of different revolvers of the 
same calibre.” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


35 

‘Well, it is no use theorising about what happened 
in this room until after the post-mortem,” said Rolfe. 

“You’d better give it some thought,” suggested the 
inspector. “In the meantime I want you to inter- 
view the people in the neighbourhood and ascertain 
whether they heard any shots. They’ll all say they did 
whether they heard them or not — you know how people 
persuade themselves into imagining things so as to get 
some sort of prominence in these crimes. But you 
can sift what they tell you and preserve the grain of 
truth. Try and get them to be accurate as to the time, 
as we want to fix the time of the crime as near as 
possible. Ask Flack to tell you something about the 
neighbours — he’s been in this district fifteen years, and 
ought to know all about them. While you’re away I’ll 
go through these private papers. I want to find out 
why he came back from Scotland so suddenly. If we 
knew that the rest might be easy.” 

“I haven’t seen the body yet,” said Rolfe. “I’d like 
to look at it. Where is it?” 

“I had it removed downstairs. You will find it in a 
big room on the left as you go down the hall. By the 
by, there is another matter, Rolfe. This glove was 
found in the room. It may be a clue, but it is more 
likely that it is one of Sir Horace’s gloves and that he 
lost the other one on his way up from Scotland. It’s 
a left-hand glove — men always lose the right-hand glove 
because they take it off so often. I’ve compared it 
with other gloves in Sir Horace’s wardrobe, and I find 
it is the same size and much the same quality. But 
find out from Sir Horace’s hosier if he sold it. Here’s 
the address of the hosiers, — Bruden and Marshall, in 
the Strand.” 

Rolfe went slowly downstairs into the room in which 
the corpse lay, and closed the door behind him. It was 
a very large room, overlooking the garden on the right 
side of the house. Somebody had lowered the Venetian 
blinds as a conventional intimation to the outside world 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


36 

that the house was one of mourning, and the room was 
almost dark. For nearly a minute Rolfe stood in silence, 
his hand resting on the knob of the door he had closed 
behind him. Gradually the outline of the room and the 
objects within it began to reveal themselves in shadowy 
shape as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light. 
He had a growing impression of a big lofty room, with 
heavy furniture, and a huddled up figure lying on a couch 
at the end furthest from the window and deepest in 
shadow. 

He stepped across to the window and gently raised 
one of the blinds. The light of an August sun pene- 
trated through the screen of trees in front of the house 
and revealed the interior of the room more clearly. Rolfe 
was amazed at its size. From the window to the couch 
at the other end of the room, where the body lay, was 
nearly thirty feet. Glancing down the apartment, he 
noticed that it was really two rooms, divided in the 
middle by folding doors. These doors folded neatly 
into a slightly protruding ridge or arch almost opposite 
the door by which he had entered, and were screened 
from observation by heavy damask curtains, which 
drooped over the archway slightly into the room. 

Evidently the deceased judge had been in the habit 
of using the divided rooms as a single apartment, for 
the heavier furniture in both halves of it was of the 
same pattern. The chairs and tables were of heavy, 
ponderous, mid-Victorian make, and they were matched 
by a number of old-fashioned mahogany sideboards and 
presses, arranged methodically at regular intervals on 
both sides of the room. Rolfe, as his eye took in these 
articles, wondered why Sir Horace Fewbanks had bought 
so many. One sideboard, a vast piece of furniture fully 
eight feet long, had a whisky decanter and siphon of 
soda water on it, as though Sir Horace had served him- 
self with refreshments on his return to the house. The 
tops of the other sideboards were bare, and the presses, 
whose use in such a room Rolfe was at a loss to conjee- 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


37 


ture, were locked up. The antique sombre uniformity of 
the furniture as a whole was broken at odd intervals by 
several articles of bizarre modernity, including a few 
daring French prints, which struck an odd note of 
incongruity in such a room. 

The murdered man had been laid on an old-fashioned 
sofa at the end of this double apartment which was 
furthest from the window. Rolfe walked slowly over 
the thick Turkey carpets and rugs with which the floor 
was covered, glanced at the sofa curiously, and then 
turned down the sheet from the dead man’s face. 

At the time of his death Sir Horace Fewbanks was 
58 years of age, but since death the grey bristles had 
grown so rapidly through his clean-shaven face that 
he looked much older. The face showed none of the 
wonted placidity of death. The mouth was twisted in 
an ugly fashion, as though the murdered man had en- 
deavoured to cry for help and had been attacked and 
killed while doing so. One of Sir Horace’s arms — the 
right one — was thrust forward diagonally across his 
breast as if in self-defence, and the hand was tightly 
clenched. Rolfe, who had last seen His Honour pre-. 
siding on the Bench in the full pomp and majesty of 
law, felt a chill strike his heart at the fell power of 
death which did not even respect the person of a High 
Court judge, and had stripped him of every vestige of 
human dignity in the pangs of a violent end. The face 
he had last seen on the Bench full of wisdom and 
austerity of the law was now distorted into a livid mask 
in which it was hard to trace any semblance of the 
features of the dead judge. 

Rolfe’s official alertness of mind in the face of a 
mysterious crime soon reasserted itself, however, and he 
shook off the feeling of sentiment and proceeded to make 
a closer examination of the dead body. As he turned 
down the sheet to examine the wound which had ended 
the judge’s life, it slipped from his hand and fell on 
jthe floor, revealing that the judge had been laid on the 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


38 

couch just as he had been killed, fully clothed. He 
had been shot through the body near the heart, and a 
large patch of blood had welled from the wound and 
congealed in his shirt. One trouser leg was ruffled up, and 
had caught in the top of the boot. 

The corpse presented a repellent spectacle, but Rolfe, 
who had seen unpleasant sights of various kinds in his 
career, bent over the body with keen interest, noting 
these details, with all his professional instincts aroused. 
For though Rolfe had not yet risen very high in the 
police force, he had many of the qualities which make 
the good detective — observation, sagacity, and some 
imagination. The extraordinary crime which he had been 
called upon to help unravel presented a baffling mystery 
which was likely to test the value of these qualities 
to the utmost. 

Rolfe looked steadily at the corpse for some time, 
impressing a picture of it in every detail on his mental 
retina. Struck by an idea, he bent over and touched 
the patch of blood in the dead man’s breast, then looked 
at his finger. There was no stain. The blood was quite 
congealed. Then he tried to unclench the judge’s right 
hand, but it was rigid. 

As Rolfe stood there gazing intently at the corpse, 
and trying to form some theory of the reason for the 
murder, certain old stories he had heard of Sir Horace 
Fewbanks’s private life and character recurred to him. 
These rumours had not been much — a jocular hint or 
two among his fellows at Scotland Yard that His Honour 
had a weakness for a pretty face and in private life 
led a less decorous existence than a judge ought to do. 
Rolfe wondered how much or how little truth was con- 
tained in these stories. He glanced around the vast 
room. Certainly it was not the sort of apartment in 
which a High Court judge might be expected to do his 
entertaining, but Rolfe recalled that he had heard gossip 
to the effect that Sir Horace, because of his virtual 
estrangement from his daughter, did very little enter- 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


39 

taining beyond an occasional bridge or supper party to 
his sporting friends, and rarely went into Society. 

Rolfe began to scrutinise the articles of furniture in 
the room, wondering if there was anything about them 
which might reveal something of the habits of the dead 
man. He produced a small electric torch from his 
pocket, and with its light to guide him in the half-dark- 
ened room, he closely inspected each piece of furniture. 
Then, with the torch in his hand, he returned to the 
sofa and flashed it over the dead body. He started vio- 
lently when the light, falling on the dead man’s closed 
hand, revealed a tiny scrap of white. Eagerly he endeav- 
oured to release the fragment from the tenacious clutch 
of the dead without tearing it, and eventually he managed 
to detach it. His heart bounded when he saw that it was 
a small torn piece of lace and muslin. He placed it in 
the palm of his left hand and examined it closely under 
the light of his torch. To him it looked to be part of a 
fashionable lady’s dainty handkerchief. He was elated 
at his discovery and he wondered how Inspector Chip- 
penfield had overlooked it. Then the explanation 
struck him. The small piece of lace and muslin had 
been effectually hidden in the dead man’s clenched hand, 
and his efforts to open the hand had loosened it. 

“Well, Rolfe,” said Inspector Chippenfield, when his 
subordinate reappeared, “you’ve been long enough to 
have unearthed the criminal or revived the corpse. Have 
you discovered anything fresh?” 

“Only this,” replied Rolfe, displaying the piece of 
handkerchief. 

The find startled Inspector Chippenfield out of his 
air of bantering superiority. 

“Where did you get that ?” he stammered, as he reached 
out eagerly for it. 

“The dead man had it clenched in his right hand. 
I wondered if he had anything hidden in his hand when 
I saw it so tightly clenched. I tried to force open the 
fingers and that fell out.” 


40 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


Inspector Chippenfield was by no means pleased at his 
subordinate’s discovery of what promised to be an im- 
portant clue, especially after the clue had been missed 
by himself. But he congratulated Rolfe in a tone of 
fictitious heartiness. 

“Well done, Rolfe!” he exclaimed. “You are coming 
on. Anyone can see that you’ve the makings of a good 
detective.” 

Rolfe could afford to ignore the sting contained in 
such faint praise. 

“What do you make of it?” he asked. 

“Looks as though there is a woman in it,” said the 
inspector, who was still examining the scrap of lace and 
muslin. 

“There can’t be much doubt about that,” replied Rolfe. 

“We mustn’t be in a hurry in jumping at conclu- 
sions,” remarked the inspector. 

“No, and we mustn’t ignore obvious facts,” said Rolfe. 

“You think a woman murdered him?” asked the in- 
spector. 

“I think a woman was present when he was shot: 
whether she fired the shot there is nothing to show at 
present. There may have been a man with her. But 
there was a struggle just before the shot was fired and 
as Sir Horace fell he grasped at the hand in which she 
was holding her handkerchief. Or perhaps her hand- 
kerchief was torn in his dying struggles when she was 
leaning over him.” 

“You have overlooked the possibility of this having 
been placed in the dying man’s hand to deceive us,” said 
the inspector. 

“If the intention was to mislead us it wouldn’t have 
been placed where it might have been overlooked.” 

As the inspector had overlooked the presence of the 
scrap of handkerchief in the dead man’s hand, he felt 
that he was not making much progress with the work 
of keeping his subordinate in his place. 

“Well, it i$ a clue of a sort,” he said, “The trouble 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


4i 


is that we have too many clues. I wish we knew which 
is the right one. Anyway, it knocks over your theory 
of a burglary,” he added in a tone of satisfaction. 
“Yes,” Rolfe admitted. “That goes by the board.” 


CHAPTER V 


“What is your name?” 

“James Hill, sir.” 

“That is an alias. What is your real name?” In- 
spector Chippenfield glared fiercely at the butler in order 
to impress upon him the fact that subterfuge was useless. 

“Henry Field, sir,” replied the man, after some hesi- 
tation. 

Inspector Chippenfield opened the capacious pocket- 
book which he had placed before him on the desk when 
the butler had entered in response to his summons, and 
he took from it a photograph which he handed to the man 
he was interrogating. 

“Is that your photograph?” he asked. 

Police photographs taken in gaol for purposes of 
future identification are always far from flattering, and 
Henry Field, after looking at the photograph handed to 
him, hesitated a little before replying, 

“Yes, sir.” 

“So, Henry Field, in November 1909 you were sen- 
tenced to three years for robbing your master, Lord 
Melhurst.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Let me see,” said the inspector, as if calling on his 
memory to perform a reluctant task. “It was a diamond 
scarf-pin and a gold watch. Lord Melhurst had come 
home after a good day at Epsom and a late supper in 
town. Next morning he missed his scarf-pin and his 
watch. He thought he had been robbed at Epsom or 
in town. He was delightfully vague about what had 
happened to him after his glorious day at Epsom, but 
unfortunately for you the taxi-cab driver who drove him 
home remembered seeing the pin on him when he got 
42 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


43 


out of the cab. As you had waited up for him suspicion 
fell on you, and you were arrested and confessed. I 
think those are the facts, Field ?” 

“Yes, sir,” said the distressed looking man who stood 
before him. 

“I think I had the pleasure of putting you through,” 
added the inspector. 

The butler understood that in police slang “putting a 
man through” meant arresting him and putting him 
through the Criminal Court into gaol. He made the 
same reply: 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Fm glad to see you bear me no ill-will for it,” said 
Inspector Chippenfield. “You don't, do you?” 

“No, sir.” 

“I never forget a face,” pursued the officer, glancing 
up at the face of the man before him. “When I saw 
you yesterday I knew you again in a moment, and when 
I went back to the Yard I looked up your record.” 

The butler was doubtful whether any reply was called 
for, but after a pause, as an endorsement of the inspec- 
tor’s gift for remembering faces, he ventured on : 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And how did you, an ex-convict, come to get into 
the service of one of His Majesty’s judges?” 

“He took me in,” replied the butler. 

“You mean that you took him in,” replied the in- 
spector, with a pleasant laugh at his own witticism. 

“No, sir, I didn’t take him in,” declared the butler. 
He had not joined in the laugh at the inspector’s joke. 

“Get away with you,” said Inspector Chippenfield. 
“You don’t expect me to believe that you told him you 
were an ex-conv ; ct? You must have used forged ref- 
erences.” 

“No, sir. He knew I was a ” Hill hesitated at 

referring to himself as an ex-convict, though he had 
not shrunk from the description by Inspector Chippen- 


44 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

field. “He knew that I had been in trouble. In fact, sir, 
if you remember, I was tried before him.” 

“The devil you were !” exclaimed Inspector Chip- 
penfield, in astonishment. “And he took you into his 
service after you had served your sentence. He must 
have been mad. How did you manage it ?” 

“After I came out I found it hard to get a place,” 
said Hill, “and when Sir Horace’s butler died I wrote 
to him and asked if he would give me a chance. I 
had a wife and child, sir, and they had a hard struggle 
while I was in prison. My wife had a shop, but she 
sold it to find money for my defence. Sir Horace told 
me to call on him, and after thinking it over he decided 
to engage me. He was a good master to me.” 

“And how did you repay him,” exclaimed Inspector 
Chippenfield sternly, “by murdering him?” 

The butler was startled by the suddenness of the ac- 
cusation, as Inspector Chippenfield intended he should be. 

“Me!” he exclaimed. “As sure as there is a God in 
Heaven I had nothing to do with it.” 

“That won’t go down with me, Field,” said the police 
officer, giving the wretched man another prolonged pene- 
trating look. 

“It’s true; it’s true!” he protested wildly. “I had 
nothing to do with it. I couldn’t do a thing like that, 
sir. I couldn’t kill a man if I wanted to — I haven’t the 
nerve. But I knew I would be suspected,” he added, in 
a tone of self-pity. 

“Oh, you did?” replied Inspector Chippenfield. “And 
why was that?” 

“Because of my past.” 

“Where were you on the date of the murder?” 

“In the morning I came over here to look round as 
usual, and I found everything all right.” 

“You did that every day while Sir Horace was away?” 

“Not every day, sir. Three times a week: Mondays, 
Wednesdays, and Fridays.” 

“Did you enter the house or just look round?” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


45 


“I always came inside.” 

“What for?” 

“To make quite sure that everything was all right.” 

“And was everything all right the morning of the 
1 8 th ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You are quite sure of that? You looked round care- 
fully?” 

“Well, sir, I just gave a glance round, for of course 
I didn’t expect anything would be wrong.” 

Inspector Chippenfield fixed a steady glance on the 
butler to ascertain if he was conscious of the trap he had 
avoided. 

“Did you look in this room?” 

“Yes, sir. I made a point of looking in all the rooms.” 

“You are sure that Sir Horace’s dead body was not 
lying here?” Inspector Chippenfield pointed beside the 
desk where the body had been found. 

“Oh, no, sir. I’d have seen it if it had.” 

“There was no sign anywhere of his having returned 
from Scotland?” 

“No, sir.” 

“You didn’t know he was returning?” 

“No, sir.” 

“What time did you leave the house?” 

“It would be about a quarter past twelve, sir.” 

“And what did you do after that?” 

“I went home and had my dinner. In the afternoon 
I took my little girl to the Zoo. I had promised her 
for a long time that I would take her to the Zoo.” 

“And what did you do after visiting the Zoo?” 

“We went home for supper. After supper my wife 
took the little girl to the picture palace in Camden Road. 
It was quite a holiday, sir, for her.” 

“And what did you do while your wife and child 
were at the pictures?” 

“I stayed at home and minded the shop. When they 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


4 6 

came home we all went to bed. My wife will tell you 
the same thing.” 

“Eve no doubt she will,” said the inspector drily. 
“Well, if you didn’t murder Sir Horace yourself when 
did you first hear that he had been murdered ?” 

“I saw it in the papers yesterday evening.” 

“And you immediately came up here to see if it was 
true?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And you were taken to the Hampstead Police Station 
to make a statement as to your movements on the day 
and night of the murder?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And the story you have just told me about the Zoo 
and the pictures and the rest is virtually the same as 
the statement you made at the station?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Do you know if Sir Horace kept a revolver?” 

“I think he did, sir.” 

“Where did he keep it?” 

“In the second drawer of his desk, sir.” 

“Well, it’s gone,” remarked Inspector Chippenfield 
without opening the drawer. “What sort of a revolver 
was it? Did you ever see it? How do you know he 
kept one?” 

“Once or twice I saw something that looked like a 
revolver in that drawer while Sir Horace had it open. 
It was a small nickel revolver.” 

“Sir Horace always locked his desk ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“None of your keys will open it, of course?” 

“No, sir. That is — I don’t know, sir. I’ve never 
tried.” 

Inspector Chippenfield grunted slightly. That trap the 
butler had not seen until too late. But of course all 
servants went through their masters’ private papers when 
they got the chance. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


47 

“Do you know if Sir Horace was in the habit of carry- 
ing a pocket-book ?” he asked. 

“Yes, sir; he was.” 

“What sort of a pocket-book?” 

“A large Russian leather one with a gold clasp.” 

“Did he take it away with him when he went to Scot- 
land? Did you see it about the house after he left?” 

“No, sir. I think he took it with him. It would not 
be like him to forget it, or to leave it lying about.” 

“And what sort of a man was Sir Horace, Field?” 

“A very good master, sir. He could be very stern 
when he was angry, but I got on very well with him.” 

“Quite so. Do you know if he had a weakness for 
the ladies?” 

“Well, sir, Fve heard people say he had.” 

“I want your own opinion; I don’t want what other 
people said. You were with him for three years and 
kept a pretty close watch on him, I’ve no doubt.” 

“Speaking confidentially, I might say that I think he 
was,” said Hill. 

He glanced apprehensively behind him as if afraid 
of the dead man appearing at the door to rebuke him for 
presuming to speak ill of him. 

“I thought as much,” said the inspector. “Have you 
any idea why he came down from Scotland?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Well, that will do for the present, Field. If I want 
you again I’ll send for you.” 

“Thank you, sir. May I ask a question, sir?” 

“What is it?” 

“You don’t really think I had anything to do with 
it, sir?” 

“I’m not here, Field, to tell you what I think. This 
much I will say: If I find you have tried to deceive me 
in any way it will be a bad day for you.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Grave, taciturn, watchful, secret and suave, with an 
appearance of tight-lipped reticence about him which 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


48 

a perpetual faint questioning look in his eyes denied, 
Hill looked an ideal man servant, who knew his station 
in life, and was able to uphold it with meek dignity. 
From the top of his trimly-cut grey crown to his neatly- 
shod silent feet he exuded deference and respectability. 
His impassive mask of a face was incapable — apart from 
the faint query note in the eyes — of betraying any of 
the feelings or emotions which ruffle the countenances of 
common humanity. 

On the way downstairs, Hill saw Police-Constable 
Flack in conversation with a lady at the front door. 
The lady was well-known to the butler as Mrs. Holy- 
mead, the wife of a distinguished barrister, who had 
been one of his master’s closest friends. She seemed 
glad to see the butler, for she greeted him with a remark 
that seemed to imply a kinship in sorrow. 

“Isn’t this a dreadful thing, Hill?” she said. 

“It’s terrible, madam,” replied Hill respectfully. 

Mrs. Holymead was extremely beautiful, but it was 
obvious that she was distressed at the tragedy, for her 
eyes were full of tears, and her olive-tinted face was 
pale. She was about thirty years of age; tall, slim, and 
graceful. Her beauty was of the Spanish type : straight- 
browed, lustrous-eyed, and vivid ; a clear olive skin, and 
full, petulant, crimson lips. She was fashionably dressed 
in black, with a black hat. 

“The policeman tells me that Miss Fewbanks has not 
come up from Dellmere yet,” she continued. 

“No, madam. We expect her to-morrow. I believe 
Miss Fewbanks has been too prostrated to come.” 

“Dreadful, dreadful,” murmured Mrs. Holymead. “I 
feel I want to know all about it and yet I am afraid. It 
is all too terrible for words.” 

“It has been a terrible shock, madam,” said Hill. 

“Has the housekeeper come up, Hill?” 

“No, madam. She will be up to-morrow with Miss 
Fewbanks.” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 49 

“Well, is there nobody I can see?” asked Mrs. Holy- 
mead. 

Police-Constable Flack was impressed by the spectacle 
of a beautiful fashionably-dressed lady in distress. 

“The inspector in charge of the case is upstairs, 
madam,” he suggested. “Perhaps you’d like to see him.” 
It suddenly occurred to him that he had instructions not to 
allow any stranger into the house, and police instructions 
at such a time were of a nature which classed a friend 
of the family as a stranger. “Perhaps I’d better ask 
him first,” he added, and he went upstairs with the feel- 
ing that he had laid himself open to severe official 
censure from Inspector Chippenfield. 

He came downstairs with a smile on his face and 
the message that the inspector would be pleased to see 
Mrs. Holymead. In his brief interview with his su- 
perior he had contrived to convey the unofficial in- 
formation that Mrs. Holymead was a fine-looking 
woman, and he had no doubt that Inspector Chippen- 
field’s readiness to see her was due to the impression 
this information had made on his unofficial feelings. 

Mrs. Holymead was conducted upstairs and announced 
by the butler. Inspector Chippenfield greeted her 
with a low bow of conscious inferiority, and anticipated 
Hill in placing a chair for her. His large red face went 
a deeper scarlet in colour as he looked at her. 

“Flack tells me that you are a friend of the family, 
Mrs. Holymead. What is it that I can do for you? I 
need scarcely say, Mrs. Holymead, that your distin- 
guished husband is well known to us all. I have had the 
pleasure of being cross-examined by him on several 
occasions. Anything you wish to know I’ll be pleased to 
tell you, if it lies within my power.” 

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Holymead. 

She seemed to be slightly nervous in the presence of a 
member of the Scotland Yard police, in spite of his obvi- 
ous humility in the company of a fashionable lady who 
belonged to a different social world from that in which 


50 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


police inspectors moved. It took Inspector Chippenfield 
some minutes to discover that the object of Mrs. Holy- 
mead’s visit was to learn some of the details of the 
tragedy. As one who had known the murdered man 
for several years, and the wife of his intimate friend, 
she was overwhelmed by the awful tragedy. She en- 
deavoured to explain that the crime was like a horrible 
dream which she could not get rid of. But in spite of 
the repugnance with which she contemplated the fact 
that a gentleman she had known so well had been shot 
down in his own house she felt a natural curiosity to 
know how the dreadful crime had been committed. 

Inspector Chippenfield availed himself of the oppor- 
tunity to do the honours of the occasion. He went 
over the details of the tragedy and pointed out where 
the body had been found. He showed her the bullet 
mark on the wall and the flattened bullet which had been 
extracted. Although from the mere habit of official 
caution he gave away no information which was not of 
a superficial and obvious kind, it was apparent he liked 
talking about the crime and his responsibilities as the 
officer who had been placed in charge of the investiga- 
tions. He noted the interest with which Mrs. Holymead 
followed his words and he was satisfied that he had 
created a favourable impression on her. It was his 
desire to do the honours thoroughly which led him to re- 
mark after he had given her the main facts of the 
tragedy : 

‘Tm sorry I cannot take you to view the body. It 
is downstairs, but the fact is the Home Office doctors 
are in there making the post-mortem to extract the 
bullet.” 

Mrs. Holymead shuddered at this information. The 
fact that such gruesome wdrk as a post-mortem examina- 
tion was proceeding on the body of a man whom she 
had known so well brought on a fit of nausea. Her 
head fell back as if she was about to faint. 

'‘Can I have a glass of water ?” she whispered. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


5i 


A fainting woman, if she is beautiful and fashionably 
dressed, will unnerve even a resourceful police official. 
Had she been one of the servants Inspector Chip- 
penfield would have rung the bell for a glass of wate : : 
to throw over her face, and meantime would have looked 
on calmly at such evidence of the weakness of sex. But 
in this case he dashed out of the room, ran downstairs, 
shouted for Hill, ordered him to find a glass, snatched 
the glass from him, filled it with water, and dashed up- 
stairs again. His absence from the room totalled a little 
less than three minutes, and when he held the glass to 
the lady’s lips he was out of breath with his exertions. 

Mrs. Holymead took a sip of water, shuddered, took 
another sip, then heaved a sigh, and opened to the full 
extent her large dark eyes on the man bending over 
her, who felt amply repaid by such a glance. She 
thanked him prettily for his great kindness and took 
her departure, being conducted downstairs, and to her 
waiting motor-car at the gate, by Inspector Chippenfield. 
That officer went back to the house with a pleased smile 
on his features. But he would not have been so pleased 
with himself if he had known that his brief absence from 
the room of the tragedy for the purpose of obtaining a 
glass of water had been more than sufficient to enable the 
lady to run to the open desk of the murdered man, touch 
a spring which opened a secret receptacle at the back of it, 
extract a small bundle of papers, close the spring, and 
return to her chair to await in a fainting attitude the 
return of the chivalrous police officer. 

Mrs. Holymead’s return to her home in Princes Gate 
was awaited with feverish anxiety by one of the inmates. 
This was Mademoiselle Gabrielle Chiron, a French girl 
of about twenty-eight, who was a distant connection of 
Mrs. Holymead’s by marriage. A cousin of Mrs. Holy- 
mead’s had married Lucille Chiron, the younger sister of 
Gabrielle, two years ago. Mrs. Holymead on visiting the 
French provincial town where the marriage was cele- 
brated, was attracted by Gabrielle. As the Chiron fam- 


52 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


ily were not wealthy they welcomed the friendship be- 
tween Gabrielle and the beautiful American who had 
married one of the leading barristers in London, and 
finally Gabrielle went to live with Mrs. Holymead as a 
companion. 

From the window of an upstairs room which com- 
manded a view of the street, Gabrielle Chiron waited 
impatiently for the return of the motor-car in which 
Mrs. Holymead had driven to Riversbrook. When at 
length it turned the corner and came into view, she 
rushed downstairs to meet Mrs. Holymead. She opened 
the street door before the lady of the house could ring. 
Her gaze was fixed on a hand-bag which Mrs. Holy- 
mead carried — a comparatively big hand-bag which the 
lady had taken the precaution to purchase before driving 
out to Riversbrook. 

The French girl’s face lighted up with a smile as she 
saw by the shape of the bag that it was not empty. 

“Have you got them?” she whispered. 

“Yes,” was the reply. “I followed out your plan — 
it worked without a hitch.” 

“Ah, I knew you would manage it,” said the girl. “I 
would have gone, but it was best that you should go. 
These police agents do not like foreigners — they would 
be suspicious if I had gone.” 

“There was a big red-faced man in charge — Inspector 
Chippenfield, they called him,” said Mrs. Holymead. “He 
was in the library as you said he would be — he was sit- 
ting there calmly as if he did not know what nerves were. 
He knew me as a friend of the family and was quite nice 
to me. I saw as soon as I went in that the desk was open 
— he had been examining Sir Horace’s private papers. I 
asked him to tell me about the — about the tragedy. He 
piled horror on horror and then I pretended to faint. He 
ran down stairs for a glass of water, and that gave me 
time to open the secret drawer. They are here,” she 
added, patting the hand-bag affectionately ; “let us go up- 
stairs and burn them.” 


CHAPTER VI 


There was unpleasant news for Inspector Chippen- 
field when Miss Fewbanks arrived at Riversbrook ac- 
companied by the housekeeper, Mrs. Hewson. In the 
first place, he learnt with considerable astonishment that 
it was Miss Fewbanks’s intention to stay at the house 
until after the funeral, and for that purpose she had 
brought the housekeeper to keep her company in the 
lonely old place. Although they had taken up their 
quarters in the opposite wing of the rambling mansion 
to that in which the dead body lay, it seemed to In- 
spector Chippenfield — whose mind was very impres- 
sionable where the fair sex was concerned — that Miss 
Fewbanks must be a very peculiar girl to contemplate 
staying in the same house with the body of her murdered 
father for nearly a week. He was convinced that she 
must be a strong-minded young woman, and he did not 
like strong-minded young women. He preferred the 
weak and clinging type of the sex as more of a compli- 
ment to his own sturdy manliness. 

His unfavourable impression of Miss Fewbanks was 
deepened when he saw her and heard what she had to 
tell him. The girl had come up from the country filled 
with horror at the crime which had deprived her of a 
father, and firmly determined to leave no stone unturned 
to bring the murderer to justice. It was true that she 
and her father had lived on terms of partial estrange- 
ment for some time past because of his manner of life, 
but all the girl’s feelings of resentment against him had 
been swept away by the news of his dreadful death, and 
all she remembered now was that he was her father, 
and had been brutally murdered. 

When she sent for Inspector Chippenfield she had 
S3 


54 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


visited the room in which lay the body of her father. 
It had been placed in a coffin which was resting on 
the undertaker’s trestles in the bay embrasure of the 
big room with the folding doors. There was nothing in 
the appearance of the corpse to suggest that a crime had 
been committed, but it had been impossible for the 
undertaker’s men to erase entirely the distortion of the 
features so that they might suggest the cold, calm dignity 
of a peaceful death. The ordeal of looking on the dead 
body of her father had nerved her to carry through 
resolutely the task of discovering the author of the 
crime. 

She awaited the coming of the inspector in a small 
sitting-room, and when he entered she pointed quickly to 
a chair, but remained standing herself. In appearance 
Miss Fewbanks was a charming girl of the typical Eng- 
lish type. She was of medium height, slight, but well- 
built, with fair hair and dark blue eyes, an imperious 
short upper lip and a determined chin, and the clear 
healthy complexion of a girl who has lived much out of 
doors. The inspector noted all these details ; noted, too, 
that although her breast heaved with agitation she had 
herself well under control; her pretty head was erect, 
and one of her small hands was tightly clenched by her 
side. 

“Have you found out — anything?” she asked the 
inspector as he entered. 

The girl had chosen a vague word because she felt 
that there were many things which must come to light 
in unravelling the crime, but, from the police point of 
view of Inspector Chippenfield, the question whether he 
had found out anything was a stinging reflection on his 
ability. 

“I consider it inadvisable to make any arrest at the 
present stage of my investigations,” he said, with cold 
official dignity. 

“Do you think you know who did it?” asked the 
girl. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


55 


“It is my business to find out,” replied the inspector, 
in a voice that indicated confidence in his ability to per- 
form the task. 

The girl was too unsophisticated to follow the subtle 
workings of official pride. “The papers call it a mys- 
terious crime. Do you think it is mysterious?” 

“There are certainly some mysterious features about 
it,” said the inspector. “But I do not regard them as 
insoluble. Nothing is insoluble,” he added, in a senten- 
tious tone. 

“If there are mysteries to be solved you ought to have 
help,” said the young lady. 

She glanced at Mrs. Hewson significantly, and then 
proceeded to explain to Inspector Chippenfield what she 
meant. 

“I have asked Mr. Crewe, the celebrated detective, to 
assist you. Of course you know Mr. Crewe — every- 
body does. I know you are a very clever man at your 
profession, but in a thing of this kind two clever men 
are better than one. I hope you will not mind — there is 
no reflection whatever on your ability. In fact, I have 
the utmost confidence in you. But it is due to my father’s 
memory to do all that is possible to get to the bottom of 
this dreadful crime. If money is needed it will be 
forthcoming. That applies to you no less than to Mr. 
Crewe. But I hope you will be able to carry out your 
investigations amicably together, and that you will be 
willing to assist one another. You will lose nothing by 
doing so. I trust you will place at Mr. Crewe’s dis- 
posal all the facilities that are available to you as an 
officer of the police.” 

This statement was so clear that Inspector Chip- 
penfield had no choice but to face the conclusion that 
Miss Fewbanks had more faith in the abilities of a 
private detective to unravel the mystery than she had 
in the resources of Scotland Yard. He would have 
liked to have told the young lady what he thought of 
her for interfering with his work, and he determined 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


56 

to avail himself of the right opportunity to do so if it 
came along. But the statement that money was not to 
be spared had a soothing influence on his feelings. Of 
course, officers of Scotland Yard were not allowed to 
take gratuities however substantial they might be, but 
there were material ways of expressing gratitude which 
were outside the regulations of the department. 

“I shall be very pleased to give Mr. Crewe any as- 
sistance he wants,” said Inspector Chippenfield, bowing 
stiffly. 

It was seldom that he took a subordinate fully into his 
confidence, but after he left Miss Fewbanks he flung 
aside his official pride in order to discuss with Rolfe 
the enlistment of the services of Crewe. Rolfe was no 
less indignant than his chief at the intrusion of an out- 
sider into their sphere. Crewe was an exponent of the 
deductive school of crime investigation, and had first 
achieved fame over the Abbindon case some years ago, 
when he had succeeded in restoring the kidnapped heir of 
the Abbindon estates after the police had failed to trace 
the missing child. In detective stories the attitude of 
members of Scotland Yard to the deductive expert is that 
of admiration based on conscious inferiority, but in real 
life the experts of Scotland Yard have the utmost con- 
tempt for the deductive experts and their methods. The 
disdainful pity of the deductive experts for the rule-of- 
thumb methods of the police is not to be compared with 
the vigorous scorn of the official detective for the rival 
who has not had the benefit of police training. 

“Look here, Rolfe,” said Inspector Chippenfield, “we 
mustn’t let Crewe get ahead of us in this affair, or we’ll 
never hear the last of it. It’s scandalous of a man like 
Crewe, who has money of his own and could live like 
a gentleman, coming along and taking the bread out of 
our mouths by accepting fees and rewards for hunting 
after criminals. Of course I know they say he is lav- 
ish with his money and gives away more than he earns, 
but that’s all bosh — he sticks it in his own pocket, right 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


57 


enough. One thing is certain : he gets paid whether he 
wins or loses ; that is to say, he gets his fee in any case, 
but of course if he wins something will be added to his 
fee. In the meantime all you and I get is our salaries, 
and, as you know, the pay of an inspector isn’t what it 
ought to be.” 

Rolfe assured his superior of his conviction that the 
pay at Scotland Yard ought to be higher for all ranks — 
especially the rank and file. Pie also declared that he 
was ready to do his best to thwart Crewe. 

“That is the right spirit,” commented Inspector 
Chippenfield approvingly. “Of course we’ll tell him 
we’re willing to help him all we can, and of course 
he’ll tell us we can depend on his help. But we know 
what his help will amount to. He’ll keep back from 
us anything he finds out, and we’ll do the same for 
him. But the point is, Rolfe, that you and I have to 
put all our brains into this and help one another. I’m 
not the man to despise help from a subordinate. If 
you have any ideas about this case, Rolfe, do not be 
afraid to speak out. I’ll give them sympathetic con- 
sideration.” 

“I know you will,” said Rolfe, who was by no means 
sure of the fact. “You can count on me.” 

“As you know, Rolfe, there have been cases in which 
men from the Yard haven’t worked together as amicably 
as they ought to have done. It used to be said when I 
was one of the plain-clothes men that the man in charge 
got all the credit and the men under him did all the 
work. But as an inspector I can tell you that is very 
rarely the case. In my reports I believe in giving my 
junioi credit for all he has done, and generally a bit 
more. It may be foolish of me, but that is my way. I 
never miss a chance of putting in a good word for the 
man under me.” 

“It would be better if they were all like that,” said 
Rolfe. 

“Well, it’s a bargain, Rolfe,” said Inspector Chippen- 


58 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


field. “You do your best on this job and you won’t 
lose by it. I’ll see to that. But in the meantime we don’t 
want to put Crewe on the scent. Let us see how much 
we’ll tell him and how much we won’t.” 

“He’ll want to see the letter sent to the Yard about 
the murder,” said Rolfe. “The Daily Recorder pub- 
lished a facsimile of it this morning.” 

“Yes, I knew about that. Well, he can have it. But 
don’t say anything to him about that lace you found in 
the dead man’s hand — or at any rate not until you find 
out more about it. The glove he can have since it is 
pretty obvious that it belonged to Sir Horace. We’ll 
spin Crewe a yarn that we are depending on it as a 
clue.” 

Crewe arrived during the afternoon to inspect the 
house and the room in which the crime had been com- 
mitted. There was every appearance of cordiality in 
the way in which he greeted the police officials. 

“Delighted to see you, Inspector,” he said. “Who 
is working this case with you? Rolfe? Don’t think we 
have met before, Rolfe, have we?” 

Rolfe politely murmured something about not having 
had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Crewe, but of always 
having wanted to meet him, because of his fame. 

“Very good of you,” replied Crewe. “This is a very 
sad business. I understand there are some attractive 
points of mystery in the crime. I hope you haven’t un- 
ravelled it yet before I have got a start. You fellows 
are so quick.” 

“Slow and sure is our motto,” said Inspector Chip- 
penfield, feeling certain that a sneer and not a compli- 
ment had been intended. “There is nothing to be gained 
in arresting the wrong man.” 

“That’s a sound maxim fpr us all,” said Crewe. “How- 
ever, let’s get to business. I rang up the Yard this 
morning and they told me you were in charge of the 
case and that I’d probably find you here. Can you let 
me have a look at the original of that letter which was 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


59 


sent to Scotland Yard informing you of the murder? 
There is a facsimile of it in the Daily Recorder this 
morning, and from all appearances there are some inter- 
esting conclusions to be drawn from it. But the original 
is the thing.” 

“Here you are,” said the inspector, producing his 
pocket-book, taking out the paper, and handing it to 
Crewe. “What do you make of it?” 

Crewe sat down, and placing the paper before him 
took a magnifying glass from his pocket. As he sat 
there, in his grey tweed suit, his hat pushed carelessly 
back from his forehead, he might have been mistaken 
for a young man of wealth with no serious business 
in life, for his clothes were of fashionable cut, and he 
wore them with an air of distinction. But a glance 
at his face would have dispelled the impression. The 
clear-cut, clean-shaven features riveted attention by 
reason of their strength and intelligence, and though the 
dark eyes were rather too dreamy for the face, the 
heavy lines of the lower jaw indicated the man of action 
and force of character. The thick neck and heavily- 
lipped firm mouth suggested tireless energy and abound- 
ing vitality. 

“At least two people have had a hand in it,” he said, 
after studying the paper for a few minutes. 

“In the murder?” asked the inspector, who was aston- 
ished at a deduction which harmonised with a theory 
which had begun to take shape in his mind. 

“In writing this,” said Crewe, with his attention still 
fixed on the paper. “But of course you know that your- 
self.” 

“Of course,” assented the inspector, who was sur- 
prised at the information, but was too experienced an offi- 
cial to show his feelings. “And both hands disguised.” 

“Disguised to the extent of being printed in written 
characters,” continued Crewe. “It is so seldom that a 
person writes printed characters that any method in 
which they are written suggests disguise. The original 


6o 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


intention of the two persons who wrote this extraordi- 
nary note was for each to write a single letter in turn. 
That system was carried as far as ‘Sir Horace’ or, per- 
haps, up to the ‘B’ in ‘Fewbanks.’ After that they be- 
came weary of changing places and one of them wrote 
alternate letters to the end, leaving blanks for the other 
to fill in. That much is to be gathered from the varia- 
tions in the spaces between the letters — sometimes there 
was too much room for an intermediate letter, sometimes 
too little, so the letter had to be cramped. Here and 
there are dots made with the pen as the first of the two 
spelled out the words so as to know what letters to write 
and what to leave blank. Look at the differences in the 
letter ‘U.’ One of the writers makes it a firm downward 
and upward stroke; the other makes the letter fainter 
and adds another downward stroke, the letter being more 
like a small ‘u’ written larger than a capital letter. The 
differences in the two hands are so pronounced through- 
out the note that I am inclined to think that one of the 
writers was a woman.” 

“Exactly what I thought,” said Inspector Chippen- 
field, looking hard at Crewe so that the latter should 
not question his good faith. 

“Then there are sometimes slight differences in the 
alternate letters written by the same hand. Look at 
the ‘T* in ‘last’ and the ‘T’ in ‘night’ — the marked varia- 
tion in the length and angle of the cross stroke. It is 
evident that the writers were labouring under serious ex- 
citement when they wrote this.” 

Rolfe was so interested in Crewe’s revelations that he 
stood beside the deductive expert and studied the paper 
afresh. 

“And now, about finger-prints ?” asked Crewe. 

“None,” was the reply of the inspector. “We had it 
under the microscope at Scotland Yard.” 

“None?” exclaimed Crewe, in surprise. “Why, adopt 
such precautions as wearing gloves to write a note giving 
away this startling secret?” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


61 


“Easy enough,” replied Inspector Chippenfield. “The 
people who wrote the note either had little or noth- 
ing to do with the murder, but were afraid suspicion 
might be directed to them, or else they are the murderers 
and want to direct suspicion from themselves.” 

“And now for the bullets,” said Crewe. “I understand 
two shots were fired.” 

“From two revolvers,” said the inspector. “Here 
are both bullets. This one I picked out of the wall over 
there. You can see where I’ve broken away the plaster. 
This one — much the bigger one of the two — was the one 
that killed Sir Horace. The doctor handed it to me after 
the post-mortem.” 

“Did Sir Horace keep a revolver?” 

“The butler says yes. But if he did it’s gone.” 

Crewe stood up and examined the hole in the wall 
where Inspector Chippenfield had dug out the smal- 
ler bullet. 

“Sir Horace made a bid for his life but missed. Of 
course, he had no time to take aim while there was a man 
on the other side of the room covering him, but in any 
case those fancy fire-arms cannot be depended upon to 
shoot straight.” 

“You think Sir Horace fired at his murderer — fired 
first ?” asked Rolfe. 

“This small bullet suggests one of those fancy silver- 
mounted weapons that are made to sell to wealthy peo- 
ple. Sir Horace was a bit of a sportsman, and knew 
something about game-shooting, but, I take it, he had no 
use for a revolver. I assume he kept one of those fancy 
weapons on hand thinking he would never have to use 
it, but that it would do to frighten a burglar if the oc- 
casion did arise.” 

“And when he was held up in this room by a man 
with a revolver he made a dash for his own revolver and 
got in the first shot?” suggested Rolfe, with the idea of 
-outlining Crewe’s theory of how the crime was com- 
anitted. 


62 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


“It is scarcely possible to reconstruct the crime to that 
extent,” said Crewe with a smile. “But undoubtedly Sir 
Horace got in the first shot. If he fired after he was hit 
his bullet would have gone wild — would probably have 
struck the ceiling — whereas it landed there. Let us 
measure the height from the floor.” He pulled a small 
spool out of a waistcoat pocket and drew out a tape 
measure. “A little high for the heart of an average 
man, and probably a foot wide of the mark.” 

“And what do you make of the disappearance of Sir 
Horace’s revolver?” asked Rolfe, who seemed to his supe- 
rior officer to be in danger of displaying some admiration 
for deductive methods. 

“I’m no good at guess-work,” replied Crewe, who felt 
that he had given enough information away. 

“Well,” said Rolfe, “here is a glove which was found 
in the room. The other one is missing. It might be a 
clue.” 

Crewe took the glove and examined it carefully. It 
was a left-hand glove made of reindeer-skin, and grey 
in colour. It bore evidence of having been in use, but 
it was still a smart-looking glove such as a man who 
took a pride in his appearance might wear. 

“Burglars wear gloves nowadays,” said Crewe, “but 
not this kind. The india-rubber glove with only the 
thumb separate is best for their work. They give free- 
dom of action for the fingers and leave no finger-prints. 
Have you made inquiries whether this is one of Sir 
Horace’s gloves ?” 

“Well, it is the same size as he wore — seven and a 
half,” said Inspector Chippenfield. “The butler is the 
only servant here and he can’t say for certain that it 
belonged to his master. I’ve been through Sir Hor- 
ace’s wardrobe and through the suit-case he brought from 
Scotland, but I can find no other pair exactly similar. 
Rolfe took it to Sir Horace’s hosier, and he is practically 
certain that the glove is one of a pair he sold to Sir 
Horace.” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 63 

“That should be conclusive,” said Crewe thoughtfully. 

“So I think,” replied the inspector. 

“Well, I’ll take it with me, if you don’t mind,” said 
Crewe. “You can have it back whenever you want it. 
Let me have the address of Sir Horace’s hosier — I’ll give 
him a call.” 

“Take it by all means,” said the inspector cordially, 
referring to the glove. And with a wink at Rolfe he 
added, “And when you are ready to fit it on the guilty 
hand I hope you will let us know.” 


CHAPTER VII 


Crewe made a careful inspection of the house and the 
grounds. He took measurements of the impressions left 
on the sill of the window which had been forced and 
also of the foot-prints immediately beneath the window. 
He had a long conversation with Hill and questioned 
him regarding his movements on the night of the mur- 
der. He also asked about the other servants who were 
at Dellmere, and probed for information about Sir Hor- 
ace’s domestic life and his friends. As he was talking to 
Hill, Police-Constable Flack came up to them with a card 
in his hand. Hill looked at the card and exclaimed: 

“Mr. Holymead? What does he want?” 

“He asked if Miss Fewbanks was at home.” 

Hill took the card in to Miss Fewbanks, and on coming 
out went to the front door and escorted Mr. Holymead 
to his young mistress. Crewe, as was his habit, looked 
closely at Holymead. The eminent K.C. was a tall man, 
nearly six feet in height, with a large, resolute, strongly- 
marked face which, when framed in a wig, was sugges- 
tive of the dignity and severity of the law. In years he 
was about fifty, and in his figure there was a suggestion 
of that rotundity which overtakes the man who has given 
up physical exercise. He was correctly, if sombrely, 
dressed in dark clothes, and he wore a black tie — probably 
as a symbol of mourning for his friend. His gloves were 
a delicate grey. 

Crewe sought out Hill again and questioned him 
closely about the relations which had existed between 
Sir Horace Fewbanks and Mr. Holymead, whose enor- 
mous practice brought him in an income three times as 
large as the dead judge’s, and kept him constantly be- 
fore the public. Hill was able to supply the detective 
64 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 65 

with some interesting information regarding the visitor, 
and, in contrast to his manner when previously ques- 
tioned at random by Crewe, concerning his young mis- 
tress’s habits, seemed willing, if not actually anxious, to 
talk. He had heard from Sir Horace’s housekeeper that 
his late master and Mr. Holymead had been law students 
together, and after they were called to the Bar they used 
to spend their holidays together as long as they were 
single. 

When they were married their wives became friends. 
Mrs. Holymead had died fourteen years ago, but Mrs. 
Fewbanks — Sir Horace had not been a baronet while 
his wife was alive — had lived some years longer. Mr. 
Holymead had married again. His second wife was 
a very beautiful young lady, if he might make so bold as 
to say so, who had come from America. The butler 
added deprecatingly that he had been told that both Sir 
Horace and Mr. Holymead had paid her some attention, 
and that she could have had either of them. She was 
different to English ladies, he added. She had more to 
say for herself, and laughed and talked with the gentle- 
men just as if she was one of themselves. Hill men- 
tioned that she had been out to see Miss Fewbanks the 
previous day, but that Miss Fewbanks had not come up 
from Dellmere then, so she had seen Inspector Chippen- 
field instead. 

While Crewe and the butler were talking a boy of 
about fourteen, with the shrewd face of a London arab, 
approached them with an air of mystery. He came down 
the hall with long cautious strides, and halted at each step 
as if he were stalking a band of Indians in a forest. 

“Well, Joe, what is it?” asked Crewe, as he came to a 
halt in front of them. 

“If you don’t want me for half an hour, sir, I’d like 
to take a run up the street. There is a real good picture 
house just been opened.” The boy spoke eagerly, with 
his bright eyes fixed on Crewe. 


66 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


“I may want you any minute, Joe,” replied Crewe. 
“Don’t go away.” 

The boy nodded his head, and turned away. As he 
went down the hall again to the front door he gave an 
imitation of a man walking with extended arms across a 
plank spanning a chasm. 

“Picture mad,” commented Crewe, as he watched him. 

“I didn’t quite understand you, sir,” replied the butler. 

“Spends all his spare time in cinemas,” said Crewe, 
“and when he is not there he is acting picture dramas. 
His ambition in life is to be a cinema actor.” 

Crewe engaged Police-Constable Flack in conversation 
while waiting for Mr. Holymead to take his departure. 
Flack had so little professional pride that he was pleased 
at meeting a gentleman who usurped the functions of a de- 
tective without having had any police training, and who 
could beat the best of the Scotland Yard men like shelling 
peas, as he confided to his wife that night. He was espe- 
cially flattered at the interest Crewe seemed to display 
in his long connection with the police force, and also in 
his private affairs. The constable was explaining with 
parental vanity the precocious cleverness of his youngest 
child, a girl of two, when Holymead made his appearance, 
and he became aware that Mr. Crewe’s interest in chil- 
dren was at an end. 

“Look at that man,” said Crewe, in a sharp imperative 
tone to the police-constable, as the K.C. was walking 
down the path of the Italian garden to the plantation. 
“You saw him come in ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Do you see any difference?” 

“No, sir; he’s the same man,” said Flack, with stolid 
certainty. 

“Anything about him that is different?” continued 
Crewe. 

Police-Constable Flack looked at Crewe in some be- 
wilderment. He was not a deductive expert, and, as he 
told his wife afterwards, he did not know what the 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


67 

detective was “driving at.” He took another long look 
at Holymead, who was then within a few yards of the 
plantation on his way to the gates, and remarked, in 
a hesitating tone, as though to justify his failure : 

“Well, .you see, sir, when he was coming in it was the 
front view I saw, now I can only see his back.” 

But before he had finished speaking Crewe had left 
him and was following the K.C. Holymead had gone into 
the house without a walking-stick, and had reappeared 
carrying one on his arm. Crewe admired the cool au- 
dacity which had prompted Holymead to go into a house 
where a murder had been committed to recover his stick 
under the very eyes of the police, and he immediately 
formed the conclusion that the K.C. had come to the 
house to recover the stick for some urgent reason pos- 
sibly not unconnected with the crime. And it was ap- 
parent that Holymead was a shrewd judge of human na- 
ture, Crewe reflected, for he calculated that the rareness 
of the quality of observation, even in those who, like 
Flack, were supposed to keep their eyes open, would per- 
mit him to do so unnoticed. 

As Crewe went down the path he beckoned to the boy 
Joe, who at the moment was acting the part of a comic 
dentist binding a recalcitrant patient to a chair, using an 
immense old-fashioned straight-backed chair which stood 
in the hall, for his stage setting. Joe overtook his master 
as he entered the ornamental plantation in front of the 
house, and Crewe quickly whispered his instructions, as 
the retreating figure of the K.C. threaded the wood 
towards the gates. 

“When I catch up level with him, Joe, you are to run 
into him accidentally from behind, and knock his stick 
off his arm, so that it falls near me. I will pick it up 
and return it to him. I must handle the stick — you 
understand? Do not wait to see how he takes it when 
you bump into him — get off round the corner at once 
and wait for me.” 

Crewe quickened his pace to overtake the man in front 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


(58 

of him. He gave no glance backward at the boy, for he 
knew his instructions would be carried out faithfully 
and intelligently. He allowed Holymead to reach the big 
open gates, and turn from the gravelled carriage drive 
into the private street. Then he hurried after him and 
drew level with Holymead. As he did so there was a 
sound of running footsteps from behind, and then a 
shout. Joe had cleverly tripped and fallen heavily be- 
tween the two men, bringing down Holymead in his 
fall. The K.C.’s stick flew off his arm and bounded half 
a dozen yards away. Crewe stepped forward quickly, 
secured the stick, glanced quickly at the monogram en- 
graved on it, and held it out to Holymead, who was 
brushing the dust off his clothes with vexatious remarks 
about the clumsiness and impudence of street boys. For 
a moment he seemed to hesitate about taking the stick. 

“1 believe this is yours,” said Crewe politely. 

“Ah — yes. Thank you,” said the K.C., giving him a 
keen suspicious glance. 


CHAPTER VIII 


Crewe had well- furnished offices in Holborn but lived 
in a luxurious flat in Jermyn Street. Although he went 
to and fro between them daily, his personality was al- 
most a dual one, though not consciously so ; his passion 
for crime investigation was distinct — in outward seem- 
ing, at all events — from his polished West End life of 
wealthy ease. Grave, self-contained, and inscrutable, he 
slipped from one to the other with an effortless regularity, 
and the fashionable folk with whom he mixed in his 
leisured bachelor existence in the West End, apart from 
knowing him as the famous Crewe, had even less knowl- 
edge of the real man behind his suave exterior than the 
clients who visited his inquiry rooms in Holborn to con- 
fide in him their stories of suffering, shame, or crimes 
committed against them. His commissionaire and body- 
servant, Stork, had once, in a rare — almost unique — con- 
vivial moment, declared to the caretaker of the building 
that he knew no more about his master after ten years 
than he did the first day he entered his service. He was 
deep beyond all belief, was Stork's opinion, delivered 
with reluctant admiration. 

Although Crewe did not allow the externals of his 
two existences to become involved, his chief interest in 
life was in his work. He had originally taken up detec- 
tive work more as a relief from the boredom of his lot as 
a wealthy young man, leading an aimless, useless life 
with others of his class, than by deliberate choice 
of his vocation. His initial successes surprised him; 
then the work absorbed him and became his life’s career. 
He had achieved some memorable successes and he had 
made a few failures, but the failures belonged to the 
earlier portion of his career, before he had learnt to trust 
69 


70 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


thoroughly in his own great gifts of intuition and in- 
sight, and that uncanny imagination which sometimes 
carried him successfully through when all else failed. 

• Serious devotees of chess knew the name of Crewe in 
another capacity — as the name of a man who might 
have aspired to great deeds if he had but taken the game 
as his life’s career. He had flashed across the chess 
horizon some years previously as a player of surpassing: 
brilliance by defeating Turgieff, when the great Russian 
master had visited London and had played twelve simul- 
taneous boards at the London Chess Club. Crewe was 
the only player of the twelve to win his game, and he did 
so by a masterly concealed ending in which he handled his 
pawns with consummate skill, proffering the sacrifice of a 
bishop with such art that Turgieff fell into the trap, and 
was mated in five subsequent moves. Crewe proved this 
was not merely a lucky win by defeating the young 
South American champion, Caranda, shortly afterwards, 
when the latter visited England and played a series of 
exhibition games in London on his way to Moscow, 
where he was engaged in the championship tourney. 
Once again it was masterly pawn play which brought 
Crewe a fine victory, and aged chess enthusiasts who fol- 
lowed every move of the game with trembling excitement, 
declared afterwards that Crewe’s conception of this par- 
ticular game had not been equalled since Morphy died. 

They predicted a dazzling chess career for Crewe, but 
he disappointed their aged hearts by retiring suddenly 
from match chess, and they mourned him as one un- 
worthy of his great chess gifts and the high hopes they 
had placed in him. But, as a matter of fact, Crewe’s in- 
tellect was too vigorous and active to be satisfied with the 
triumphs of chess, and his disappearance from the chess 
world was contemporary with his entrance into detective 
work, which appealed to his imagination and found scope 
for his restless mental activity. But if detective work so 
absorbed him that he gave up match chess entirely, he 
still retained an interest in the science of chess, reserving 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


7 1 


problem play for his spare moments, and, when not 
immersed in the solution of a problem of human mystery, 
he would turn to the chessboard and seek solace and re- 
laxation in the mysteries of an intricate “four-mover.” 

He had once said that there was a certain affinity be- 
tween solving chess problems and the detection of crime 
mystery : once the key-move was found, the rest was com- 
paratively easy. But he added with a sigh that a really 
perfect crime mystery was as rare as a perfect chess 
problem: human ingenuity was not sufficiently skilful, 
as a rule, to commit a crime or construct a chess problem 
with completely artistic concealment of the key-move, 
and for that reason most problems and crimes were far 
too easy of detection to absorb one's intellectual interests 
and attention. 

It was the morning after Crewe’s visit to Riversbrook, 
and the detective sat in his private office glancing through 
a note-book which contained a summary of the Hamp- 
stead mystery. Crewe was a painstaking detective as well 
as a brilliant one, and it was his custom to prepare several 
critical summaries of any important case on which he was 
engaged, writing and rewriting the facts and his com- 
ments, until he was satisfied that he had a perfect outline 
to work upon, with the details and clues of the crime in 
consecutive order and relation to one another. Experi- 
ence had taught him that the time and labour this task 
involved were well-spent. If an unexpected development 
of the case altered the facts of the original summary 
Crewe prepared another one in the same painstaking way. 
The summaries, when done with, were methodically filed 
and indexed and stored in a strong room at the office for 
future reference, where he also kept full records of all 
the cases upon which he had been engaged, together with 
the weapons and articles that had figured in them : huge 
volumes of newspaper reports and clippings ; photographs 
of criminals with their careers appended; and a host of 
other odds and ends of his detective investigations — the 
whole forming an interesting museum of crime and mys- 


72 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


tery which would have furnished a store of rich material 
for a fresh Newgate Calendar. It was an axiom of 
Crewe’s that a detective never knew when some old 
scrap of information or some trifling article of some 
dead and forgotten crime might not afford a valuable 
clue. Expert criminals frequently repeated themselves, 
like people in lesser walks of life, and Crewe’s “library 
and museum,” as he called it, had sometimes furnished 
him with a simple hint for the solution of a mystery 
which had defied more subtle methods of analysis. 

Crewe, after carefully reading his summary of the 
murder of Sir Horace Fewbanks, and making a few alter- 
ations in the text, drew from his pocket the glove which 
Inspector Chippenfield had handed him as a clue, took 
it to the window, and carefully examined it through 
a large magnifying glass. He was thus engrossed when 
the door was noiselessly opened, and Stork, the body- 
guard, entered. Stork belied his name. He was short 
and fat, with a red mottled face; a model of discretion 
and imperturbability, who had served Crewe for ten 
years, and bade fair to serve him another ten, if he lived 
that long. In his heart of hearts he often wondered 
why a gentleman like Crewe should so far forget what 
was due to his birth and position, as to have offices in 
Holborn — Holborn, of all parts of London! But the 
awe he felt for Crewe prevented his seeking information 
on the point from the only person who could give it to 
him, so he served him and puzzled over him in silence, his 
inward perturbation of spirits being made manifest occa- 
sionally by a puzzled glance at his master when the latter 
was not looking. It was nothing to Stork that his master 
was a famous detective ; the problem to him was why he 
was a detective when he had no call to be one, having 
more money than any man — and let alone a single. man — 
could spend in a lifetime. 

Stork coughed slightly to attract Crewe’s attention. 
* “If you please, sir,” he said, “the boy has come.” 

While Crewe was busy with his magnifying glass 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


73 

Stork returned with the boy who had accompanied Crewe 
on his visit to Riversbrook on the previous day. 

The boy, a thin white-faced, sharp-eyed London street 
urchin, seemed curiously out of place in the handsomely 
furnished office, with his legs tucked up under the carved 
rail of a fine old oak chair, and his big dark eyes fixed 
intently on Crewe’s face. The tie between him and the 
detective was an unusual one. It dated back some 
twelve months, when Crewe, in the investigation of a pe- 
culiarly baffling crime, found it advisable to disguise him- 
self and live temporarily in a crowded criminal quarter 
of Islington. The rooms he took were above a second- 
hand clothing shop kept by a drunken female named 
Leaver; a supposed widow who lived at the back of the 
shop with her two children, Lizzie, a bold-eyed girl of 
17, who worked at a Clerkenwell clothing factory, and 
Joe, a typical Cockney boy of fourteen, who sold papers 
in the streets during the day and was fast qualifying for 
a thief at night when Crewe went to the place to live. 

Crdwe soon discovered, through overhearing a loud 
quarrel between his landlady and her daughter, that Mrs. 
Leaver’s husband was alive, though dead to his wife for 
all practical purposes, inasmuch as he was serving a life’s 
imprisonment for manslaughter. A fortnight after he 
had taken up his temporary quarters above the shop the 
woman was removed to the hospital suffering from the 
effects of a hard drinking bout, and died there. The girl 
disappeared, and the boy would have been turned out on 
the streets but for Crewe, who had taken a liking to 
him. Joe was self-reliant, alert, and precocious, like 
most London street boys, but in addition to these quali- 
ties he had a vein of imagination unusual in a lad of his 
upbringing and environment. He devoured the exciting 
feuilleton stories in the evening papers he vended, and 
spent his spare pennies at the cinema theatres in the vi- 
cinity of his poor home. His appreciation of the crude 
mysteries of the filmed detective drama amused the fa- 
mous expert in the finer art of actual crime detection, un- 


74 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


til he discovered that the boy possessed natural gifts of 
intuition and observation, combined with penetration. 
Crewe grew interested in developing the boy’s talent for 
detective work. When the lad’s mother died Crewe de- 
cided to take him into his Holborn offices as messenger- 
boy. Crewe soon discovered that Joe had a useful gift 
for “shadowing” work, and his street training as a news- 
paper runner enabled him not only to follow a person 
through the thickest of London traffic, but to escape ob- 
servation where a man might have been noticed and sus- 
pected. 

“Well, Joe,” said Crewe, as the boy entered on the 
heels of Stork, “I have a job for you this morning. I 
want you to find the glove corresponding to this one.” 

Crewe, having finished his examination of the glove, 
handed it to the boy, whose first act was to slip it on his 
left hand and move his fingers about to assure himself 
that they were in good working order in spite of being 
hidden. It was the first occasion on which Joe had worn 
a glove. 

“It was found in the room in which Sir Horace Few- 
banks was murdered,” continued Crewe. “The other one 
was not there. The question I want to solve is, did it 
belong to Sir Horace, or to some one who visited him 
on the night he was murdered? The police think it be- 
longed to Sir Horace because it is the same size as the 
gloves he wore, and because Sir Horace’s hosier stocks 
the same kind — as does nearly every fashionable hosier 
in London. They think he lost the right-hand glove on 
his way up from Scotland. It will occur to you, Joe, 
though you don’t wear gloves, that it is more common 
for men to lose the right-hand glove than the left-hand, 
because the right hand is used a great deal more than the 
left, and even men who would not be seen in the street 
without gloves find there are many things they cannot 
do with a gloved hand. For instance, to dive one’s hand 
into one’s trouser pocket where most men keep their loose 
change the glove has to be removed.” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


75 

“Then the gentleman would take off his right glove 
when he paid for his taxi-cab from St. Pancras,” said 
Joe, who was familiar through the accounts in the news- 
papers with the main details of the Fewbanks mystery. 

“Right, Joe,” said his master approvingly. “And in 
that case he dropped the glove between the taxi-cab out- 
side his front gates and his room, and it would have been 
found. I have made inquiries and I am satisfied it was 
not found.” 

“He might have lost it when he was getting into the 
train at Scotland,” suggested the lad. “He had to change 
trains at Glasgow — he might have lost it there.” 

“That is a rule-of-thumb deduction,” said Crewe, with 
a kindly smile. “It is good enough for the police, for 
they have apparently adopted it, but it is not good enough 
for me. What you don’t understand, Joe, is that an odd 
glove is of no value in the eyes of a man who wears 
gloves. He doesn’t take it home as a memento of his 
carelessness in losing the other. He throws it away. 
Therefore if this is Sir Horace’s glove he took it home 
because he was unaware that he had lost the other. He 
would put on his gloves before leaving the train at St. 
Pancras. And he would pull off the right-hand one — he 
was not left-handed — when the taxi-cab was nearing his 
home so as to be able to pay the fare. Therefore, if it 
is Sir Horace’s glove the fellow to it was dropped in the 
taxi-cab, or dropped between the taxi-cab and the house. 
If the glove had been lost at the other end of the journey 
in Scotland Sir Horace would have flung this one out of 
the carriage window when he became aware of the loss. 
As I have told you no glove was found between the gate 
at Riversbrook and the room in which Sir Horace was 
murdered. I got from the police the number of the taxi- 
cab in which Sir Horace was driven from St. Pancras, 
and the driver tells me that no glove was left in his cab. 
So what have we to do next, Joe?” 

“To find the missing glove? It’s a tough job, ain’t it, 
sir?” 


76 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

“Yes and no,” replied Crewe. “It is possible to make 
some reasonable safe deductions in regard to it. These 
would indicate what had happened to it, and knowing 
where to look, or, rather, in what circumstances we might 
expect to find it, we might throw a little light on it. In 
the first place, it might be assumed that if the glove did 
not belong to Sir Horace it belonged to some one who 
visited him on the night he returned unexpectedly from 
Scotland. That indicates that his visitor knew Sir Hor- 
ace was returning; a most important point, for if he 
knew Sir Horace was returning he knew why he was 
returning — which no one else knows up to the present as 
far as I have been able to gather — and in all probability 
was responsible for his return, say, sent him a letter or 
a telegram which brought him to London. So we come 
to the possibility of an angry scene in the room in which 
Sir Horace’s dead body was subsequently found. We 
have the possibility of the visitor leaving the house in a 
high state of excitement, hastily snatching up the hat and 
gloves he had taken off when he arrived, and in his ex- 
citement dropping unnoticed the right-hand glove on the 
floor.” 

“And leaving his gold-mounted stick behind him,” 
said Joe, who was following his master’s line of reason- 
ing with keen interest. 

“Right, Joe,” said Crewe. “That was placed in the 
stand in the hall, and when the visitor left hurriedly was 
entirely forgotten. But at what stage did the visitor 
become conscious of the loss of his glove? Not until 
his excitement cooled down a little. How long he took 
to cool down depends upon the cause of his excitement 
and his temperament, things which, at present, we can 
only guess at. He would probably walk a long distance 
before he cooled down. Then he would resume his nor- 
mal habits and among other things would put on his 
gloves — if he had them. He would find that he had lost 
one and that he had left his stick behind. He would know 
that the stick had been left behind in the hall, but he 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


77 


would not know the glove had been dropped in the house. 
The probabilities are that he would think he had dropped 
it while walking. But if he felt that he had dropped it 
in the house, and he had the best of all reasons for 
not wishing anyone to know that he had visited Sir 
Horace that night, he would destroy the remaining glove 
and our chance of tracing it would be gone. The fact 
that he had left his stick behind was a minor matter 
that he could easily account for if he had been a friend 
of Sir Horace who had been in the habit of visiting 
River sb rook. If anything cropped up subsequently about 
the stick he could say that he had left it there before Sir 
Horace closed up his house and went to Scotland. 

“But the problem of the glove is a different matter, Joe. 
There are three phases to it : first, if the visitor thought he 
had dropped it in the house and wanted to keep his visit 
there a profound secret from subsequent inquiry he would 
take home the remaining glove and destroy it — probably 
by burning it. Secondly, if he thought he had dropped it 
after leaving the house he would not feel that safety 
necessitated the destruction of the remaining one, but 
he would probably throw it away where it would not 
be likely to be found. In the third place, if he had no 
particular reason for wishing to hide the fact that he had 
visited Riversbrook he would throw it away anywhere 
when he became conscious that he had lost the other. 
He would throw it away merely because an odd glove is 
of no use to a man who wears gloves. The man who 
doesn’t wear gloves \yould pick up an odd glove from 
the ground and think he had made a find. He would 
take it home to his wife and she would probably keep it 
for finger-stalls for the children.” 

Crewe put down his notes and got up from his chair. 
“Your job is this, Joe. Go to Riversbrook and make a 
careful search on both sides of the road for the missing 
glove. I do not think he threw it away — if he did throw 
it away — until he had walked some distance, but you 
mustn’t act on that assumption. Look over the fences of 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


78 

the houses and into the hedges. Walk along in the direc- 
tion of Hampstead Underground. Search the gutters 
and all the trees and hedges along the road. Take one 
side of the street to the Underground station and if you 
do not find the glove go back to Riversbrook along the 
other side. Make a thorough job of it, as it is most im- 
portant that the glove should be found — if it is to be 
found.” 

After Joe had departed Crewe put on his hat and left 
his office for the Strand. His first call was at the shop 
of Bruden and Marshall, hosiers, in order to find out if 
any information was to be obtained there about the own- 
ership of the glove. He was aware that the police had 
been there on the same mission, but his experience had 
often shown that valuable information was to be gathered 
after the police had been over the ground. 

On introducing himself to the manager of the shop that 
gentleman displayed as much humble civility as he would 
have done towards a valued customer. He could not 
say anything about the ownership of the glove which 
Crewe had brought, and he could not even say if it had 
come from their shop. It was an excellent glove, the 
line being known in the trade as “first-choice reindeer.” 
They stocked that particular kind of article at 10/6 the 
pair. They had the pleasure of having had the late Sir 
Horace Fewbanks on their books. He was quite an old 
account, if he might use the expression. He was one of 
their best customers, being a gentleman who was particu- 
lar about his appearance and who would have nothing 
but the best in any line that he fancied. On the subject 
of Sir Horace’s taste in hose the manager had much to 
say, and, in spite of Crewe’s efforts to confine the con- 
versation to gloves, the manager repeatedly dragged in 
socks. He did it so frequently that he became conscious 
his visitor was showing signs of annoyance, so he apolo- 
gised, adding, with an inspiration, “After all, hose is 
really gloves for the feet.” 

Crewe ascertained that a large number of legal gentle- 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


79 


men were customers of Bruden and Marshall. He inno- 
cently suggested that the reason was because the shop 
was the nearest one of its kind to the Law Courts, but 
this explanation offended the shopman’s pride. It was 
because they stocked high-class goods and gave good 
value in every way, combined with attention and civility 
and a desire to please, that they did such an excellent 
business with legal gentlemen. In refutation of the 
idea that proximity to the Courts was the direct reason 
of their having so many legal gentlemen among their 
customers the manager declared that they received orders 
from all parts of the world — India, Canada, Australia, 
and South Africa, to say nothing of American gentlemen 
who liked their hosiery to have the London hall-mark. 
Their orders from the Colonies came from gentlemen 
who found that these things in the Colonies were not 
what they had been used to, and so they sent their orders 
to Bruden and Marshall. 

Crewe’s interest was in the legal customers and he 
asked for the names of some. The manager ran through 
a list of names of judges, barristers and solicitors, but 
the name Crewe wanted to hear was not among them. 
He was compelled to include the name among half a 
dozen others he mentioned to the manager. He ascer- 
tained that Mr. Charles Holymead was a customer of 
the firm, but it was apparent from the manager’s spirit- 
less attitude towards Mr. Holymead that the famous K.C. 
was not a man who ran up a big bill with his hosier, or 
was very particular about what he wore. The world 
regarded some of the men of this type famous or dis- 
tinguished, but in the hosier’s mind they were all classed 
as commonplace. But the manager would not go so far 
as to say that Mr. Holymead would not buy such a glove 
as that which Crewe had brought in. He might and he 
might not, but, as a general rule, he did not pay more 
than 8/6 for his gloves. 

Crewe took a taxi to Princes Gate in order to have a 
look at the house in which Holymead lived. It occurred 


8o 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


to him that if Holymead was not particular about what he 
spent on his clothes he was extravagant about the amount 
he spent in house rent. Of course, a leading barrister 
earning a huge income could afford to live in a palatial 
residence in Princes Gate, but it was not the locality or 
residence that an economically-minded man would have 
chosen for his home. But Crewe had little doubt that 
the beautiful wife Holymead possessed was responsible 
for the choice of house and locality. 

After looking at the house Crewe walked back to the 
cab-stand at Hyde Park Corner. He had arrived at the 
conclusion that it was necessary to settle beyond doubt 
whether the K.C. had visited Riversbrook the night Sir 
Horace had returned from Scotland. If the K.C. had 
done so, he was anxious to keep the visit secret, for not 
only had he not informed the police of his visit but he 
had kept it from Miss Fewbanks. Crewe had ascertained 
from Miss Fewbanks that Mr. Holymead when he had 
called at Riversbrook on a visit of condolence had not 
mentioned to her anything about having left his stick 
in the hall stand on a previous visit. On leaving Miss 
Fewbanks Mr. Holymead had gone up to the hall stand 
and taken both his hat and stick as if he had left them 
both there a few minutes before. 

Crewe reasoned that if Holymead had gone out to see 
Sir Horace Fewbanks at Riversbrook and had desired to 
keep his visit a secret he would not have taken a cab at 
Hyde Park Corner to Hampstead, but would have trav- 
elled by underground railway or omnibus. In all prob- 
ability the Tube had been used because of its speed being 
more in harmony with the feelings of a man impatient to 
get done with a subject so important that Sir Horace had 
been recalled from Scotland to deal with it. He would 
leave the Tube at Hampstead and take a taxi-cab. He 
would not be likely to go straight to Riversbrook in the 
taxi-cab, if he were anxious that his movements should 
not be traced subsequently. He would dismiss the taxi- 
cab at one of the hotels bordering on Hampstead Heath, 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


81 


for they were the resort of hundreds of visitors on sum- 
mer nights, and his actions would thus easily escape notice. 
F rom the hotel he would walk across to Riversbrook. But 
the return journey would be made in a somewhat different 
way. If Holymead left Riversbrook in a state of excite- 
ment he would walk a long way without being conscious 
of the exertion. He would want to be alone with his own 
thoughts. Gradually he would cool down, and becoming 
conscious of his surroundings would make his way home. 
Again he would use the Tube, for it would be more diffi- 
cult for his movements to be traced if he mixed with a 
crowd of travellers than if he took a cab to his home. It 
was impossible to say what station he got in at, for that 
would depend on how far he walked before he cooled 
down, but he would be sure to get out at Hyde Park Cor- 
ner because that was the station nearest to his house. 
Allowing for a temperamental reaction during a train 
journey of about twenty minutes, he would feel depressed 
and weary and would probably take a taxi-cab outside 
Hyde Park station to his home. That was a thing he 
would often be in the habit of doing when returning late 
at night from the theatre or elsewhere, and therefore 
could be easily explained by him if the police happened to 
make inquiries as to his movements. 

As Crewe anticipated, he had no difficulty in finding the 
driver of the taxi-cab in which Holymead had driven 
home on the night of Wednesday last. The K.C. fre- 
quently used cabs, and he was well-known to all the 
drivers on the rank. Crewe got into the cab he had used 
and ordered the man to drive him to his office, and there 
invited him upstairs. He adopted this course because 
he knew that the driver, who gave his name as Taylor, 
would be more likely to talk freely in an office where he 
could not be overheard than he would do on the cab-rank 
with his fellow-drivers crowding him, or in an hotel 
parlour where other people were present. 

“Tell me exactly what happened when you drove Mr. 
Holymead home on Wednesday night/’ said Crewe. “Did 


82 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


you notice anything strange about him, or was his manner 
much the same as on other occasions that he used your 
cab ?” 

‘‘Well, I don’t see whether I should tell you whether 
he was or whether he wasn’t,” replied the taxi-cab driver, 
who was as surly as most of his class. “What’s it to 
do with you, anyway? He’s a regular customer of mine 
on the rank, and he’s not one of your tuppenny tipsters, 
either. He’s a gentleman. And if he got to know that 
I had been telling tales about him it would not do me 
any good.” 

‘Jit would not,” replied Crewe, with cordial acquies- 
cence. “Therefore, Taylor, I give you my word of 
honour not to mention anything you tell me. Further- 
more, I’ll see that you don’t lose by it now or at any other 
time. I cannot say more than that, but that’s a great deal 
more than the police would say. Now, would you sooner 
tell me or tell the police? Here’s a sovereign to start 
with, and if you have an interesting story to tell you’ll 
have another one before you leave.” 

The appeal of money and the conviction that the police 
would use less considerate methods if Crewe passed him 
over to them abolished Taylor’s scruples about discuss- 
ing a fare, and it was in a much less surly tone that he 
responded : 

“I didn’t notice anything strange about him when he 
called me off the rank, but I did afterwards. First of 
all, I didn’t drive him home. That is, I did drive him 
home, but he didn’t go inside. When I drew up outside 
his house in Princes Gate, I looked around expecting to 
see him get out. As he didn’t move I got down and 
opened the door. ‘Aren’t you getting out here, sir?’ I 
said, in a soft voice. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Drive on.’ ‘This 
is your house, sir,’ I ventured to say. ‘I’m not going in/ 
he replied, ‘drive on.’ I was surprised. I thought he 
was the worse for drink, and I’d never seen him that way 
before. But some gentlemen are so obstinate in liquor 
that you can’t get them to do anything except the opposite 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 83 

of what you ask them. I thought I’d try and coax him. 
‘Better go inside, sir/ I said. ‘You’ll be better off in 
bed.’ ‘Do you think I am drunk ?’ he said sharply. You 
could have knocked me down with a feather. He was as 
sober as a judge, all in a moment. ‘No, sir, I didn’t/ I 
said. ‘I wouldn’t take the liberty/ I said. ‘Then get back 
on your seat and drive me to the Hyde Park Hotel — no, 
I think I’ll go to Verney’s. But don’t go there direct. 
Drive me round the Park first. I feel I want a breath 
of cool air/ ” 

“Go on,” said Crewe, in a tone which indicated ap- 
proval of Taylor’s method of telling his story. ' 

“Well, I turned the cab round and drove through the 
Park. But I was puzzled about him and looked back at 
him once or twice pretending that I was looking to see 
if a cab or car was coming up behind. And as we passed 
over the Serpentine Bridge I saw him throw something 
out of the window.” 

“A glove?” suggested Crewe quickly. 

The driver looked at him in profound admiration. 

“Well, if you don’t beat all the detectives I’ve ever 
heard of.” 

“He tried to throw it in the water,” continued Crewe, 
as if explaining the matter to himself rather than to his 
visitor. “Did you get it?” 

“Hold on a bit,” said Taylor, who had his own ideas of 
how to give value for the extra sovereign he hoped to 
obtain. “I couldn’t see what it was he had thrown away, 
and, of course, I couldn’t pull up to find out. I drove 
on, but I kept my eye on him, though I had my back 
to him. As we were driving back along the Broad Walk 
I had another look at him, and bless me if he wasn’t cry- 
ing — crying like a child. He had his hands up to his 
face and his head was shaking as if he was sobbing. 

I said to myself, ‘He’s barmy — he’s gone off his rocker.’ 

I thought to myself I ought to drive him to the police 
station, but I reckoned it was none of my business, after 
all, so I’ll take him to Verney’s and be done with it. 


84 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


So I drove to Verney’s. He got out, and paid me, but 
I couldn’t see that he had been crying, and he looked 
much as usual, so far as I could see. I thought to my- 
self that perhaps, after all, he’d only had a queer turn ; 
however, I said to myself I’d drive back to the bridge and 
see what he’d thrown out of the window. It was a 
glove, sure enough. It had fallen just below the railing. 
I looked about for the other one, but I couldn’t find it, 
so I suppose it must have fallen into the water.” 

“No, it didn’t,” said Crewe. “I have it here.” He 
opened a drawer in his desk and produced a glove. “It 
was a right-hand glove you found. Just look at this one 
and see if it corresponds to the one you picked up.” 

Taylor looked at the glove. 

“They’re as like as two peas,” he said. 

“What did you do with the one you found?” inquired 
Crewe. “I hope you didn’t throw it away ?” 

“I’m not a fool,” retorted Taylor. “I’ve had odd gloves 
left in my cab before. I kept this one thinking that 
sooner or later somebody might leave another like it, and 
then I’d have a pair for nothing.” 

“Well, I’ll buy it from you,” said Crewe. “Have you 
anything more to tell me ?” 

“I went back to the rank and one of the chaps was 
curious that I’d been so long away, for he knew that Mr. 
Hblymead’s place isn’t more than ten minutes’ drive 
from the station. But he got nothing out of me. I 
know how to keep my mouth shut. You’re the first man 
I’ve told what happened, and I hope you won’t give me 
away.” 

“I’ve already promised you that,” said Crewe, flipping 
another sovereign from his sovereign case and handing it 
to Taylor, “and I’ll give you five shillings for the glove.” 

Taylor looked at him darkly. 

“Five shillings isn’t much for a glove like that,” he said 
insolently. “What about my loss of time going home for 
it? I suppose you’ll pay the taxi-fare for the run down 
from Hyde Park?” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


85 


“No, I won’t,” said Crewe cheerfully. 

“Then I don’t see why I should bring it for a paltry 
five shillings,” said Taylor. “If you want the glove 
you’ll have to pay for it.” 

“But I don’t want the glove,” said Crewe, who dis- 
liked being made the victim of extortion. “What made 
you think so? I’ll sell you this one for five shillings. 
We may as well do a deal of some kind ; it is no use each 
of us having one glove. What do you say, Taylor? Will 
you buy mine for five shillings, or shall I buy yours ?” 

Taylor smiled sourly. 

“You’re a deep one,” he said. “Here’s the other glove.” 
He dipped his hand into the deep pocket of his driving 
coat and produced a glove. “I suppose you knew I’d 
have it on me. Five shillings, and it’s yours.” 

“The pair are worth about five shillings to me,” said 
Crewe as he paid over the money. “Do you remember 
what time it was when Mr. Holymead engaged you at 
Hyde Park?” 

“Eleven o’clock.” 

“You are quite sure as to the time?” 

“I heard one of the big clocks striking as he was get- 
ting into my cab.” 

Taylor took his departure, and Crewe, after wrapping 
up the left-hand glove which he had to return to Inspector 
Chippenfield, put the other one in his safe. 

“We are getting on,” he said in a pleased tone. “This 
means a trip to Scotland, but I’ll wait until the inquest is 
over.” 


CHAPTER IX 


At the inquest on the body of Sir Horace Fewbanks, 
which was held at the Hampstead Police Court, there was 
an odd mixture of classes in the crowd that thronged 
that portion of the court in which the public were al- 
lowed to congregate. The accounts of the crime which 
had been published in the press, and the atmosphere of 
mystery which enshrouded the violent death of one of 
the most prominent of His Majesty’s judges, had stirred 
the public curiosity, and therefore, in spite of the fact that 
every one was supposed to be out of town in August, 
the attendance at the court included a sprinkling of ladies 
of the fashionable world, and their escorts. 

Both branches of the legal profession were numerously 
represented. All of the victim’s judicial colleagues were 
out of town, and though some of them intended as a mark 
of respect for the dead man to come up for the funeral, 
which was to take place two days later, they were too 
familiar with legal procedure to feel curiosity as to the 
working of the machinery at a preliminary inquiry into 
the crime. They were emphatic among their friends on 
the degeneracy of these days which rendered possible 
such an outrageous crime as the murder of a High Court 
judge. The fact that it was without precedent in the his- 
tory of British law added to its enormity in the eyes 
of gentlemen who had been trained to worship precedent 
as the only safe guide through the shifting quicksands 
of life. They were insistent on the urgency of the mur- 
derer being arrested and handed over to Justice in the 
person of the hangman, for — as each asked himself — 
where was this sort of crime to end? In spite of the 
degeneracy of the times they were reluctant to believe 
86 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 87 

in such a far-fetched supposition as the existence of a 
band of criminals who, in revenge for the judicial sen- 
tences imposed on members of their class, had sworn 
to exterminate the whole of His Majesty’s judges; but, 
until the murderer was apprehended and the reason for 
the crime was discovered, it was impossible to say that 
the English judicature would not soon be called upon 
to supply other victims to criminal violence. The mur- 
der of a judge seemed to them a particularly atrocious 
crime, in the punishment of which the law might honour- 
ably sacrifice temporarily its well-earned reputation foi; 
delay. 

The bar was represented chiefly by junior members. 
The senior members were able to make full use of 
the long vacation, spending it at health resorts or in the 
country, but the incomes of the young shoots of the 
great parasitical profession did not permit them to enjoy 
more than a brief holiday out of town. Of course it 
would never have done for them to admit even to each 
other that they could not afford to go away for an 
extended holiday, and therefore they told one another 
in bored tones that they had not been able to make up 
their minds where to go. The junior bar included old 
men, who, through lack of influence, want of energy, want 
of advertisement, want of ability, or some other de- 
ficiency, had never earned more than a few guineas at 
their profession, though they had spent year after year 
in chambers. They lived on scanty private meansi. 
Broken in spirit they had even ceased to attend the 
courts in order to study the methods and learn the tricks 
of successful counsel. But the murder of a High Court 
judge was a thing which stirred even their sluggish 
blood, and in the hope of some sensational development 
they had put on faded silk hats and shabby black suits 
and gone out to Hampstead to attend the inquest. 

The interest of the junior bar in the crime was as 
personal as that of the members of the Judicial Bench, 
though it manifested itself in an entirely different direc- 


88 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


tion. They speculated among themselves as to who would 
be appointed to the vacancy on the High Court Bench. 
A leading K.C. with a political pull would of course 
be selected by the Attorney-General, but there were sev- 
eral K.C.’s who possessed these qualifications, and there- 
fore there was room for differences of opinion among 
the junior bar as to who would get the offer. The point 
on which they were all united was that vacancies of the 
High Court Bench were a good thing for the bar as 
a whole, for they removed leading K.C.’s, and the dis- 
persion of their practice was like rain on parched ground. 
Metaphorically speaking, every one — including even the 
junior bar — had the chance of getting a shove up when a 
leading K.C. accepted a judicial appointment. Some of 
the more irreverent spirits among the junior bar, in draw- 
ing attention to the fact that Sir Horace Fewbanks had 
been one of the youngest members of the High Court 
Bench, expressed the hope that the shock of his death 
would be felt by some of the extremely aged members of 
the bench who were too infirm in health to be able to 
stand many shocks. 

The members of the junior bar chatted with the repre- 
sentatives of the lower branch of the profession who 
ranged from articled clerks whose young souls had not 
been entirely dried up by association with parchment, 
to hard old delvers in dusty documents who had lived 
so long in the legal atmosphere of quibbling, obstruction, 
and deceit, that they were as incapable of an honest im- 
petuous act as of an illegal one. The gossip concerning 
the murdered judge in which the two branches of the 
profession joined had reference to his moral character 
in legal circles. There had always been gossip of the 
kind in his life-time. Sir Horace’s judicial reputation 
was beyond reproach and he had known his law a great 
deal better than most of his judicial colleagues. Com- 
paratively few of his decisions had been upset on appeal. 
But every one about the courts knew that he was sus- 
ceptible to a pretty feminine face and a good figure. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 89 

Many were the conflicts that arose in court between bench 
and bar as the result of Mr. Justice Fewbanks’s habit of 
protecting pretty witnesses from cross-examining ques- 
tions which he regarded as outside the case. There was 
no suggestion that his judicial decisions were influenced 
by the good looks of ladies who were parties to the cases 
heard by him, but there were rumours that on occasions 
the relations between the judge and a pretty witness be- 
gun in court had ripened into something at which moral 
men might well shake their heads. 

While the members of the legal profession struggled 
to obtain seats in the body of the court, an entirely dif- 
ferent class of spectators struggled to get into the gal- 
lery. For the most part they were badly dressed men who 
needed a shave, but there were a few well-dressed men 
among them, and also a few ladies. Detective Rolfe took 
a professional interest in the occupants of the gallery. 
“What a collection of crooks,” he whispered to Inspec- 
tor Chippenfield. “A regular rogues’ gallery. Look 
— there is ‘Nosey George’; it is time he was in again. 
And behind him is that cunning old ‘drop’ Ikey Samuels 
— I wish we could get him. Look at the other end of 
the first row. Isn’t that ‘Sunny Jim’? I hardly knew 
him. He’s grown a beard since he’s been out. We’ll 
soon have it off again for him. He’s got the impudence 
to scowl at us. He’ll lay for you one of these nights, 
Inspector.” 

The judicial duties of the murdered man had been 
concerned chiefly with civil cases at the Royal Courts of 
Justice, but when the criminal calender had been heavy 
he had often presided at Number One Court at the Old 
Bailey. It was this fact which had given the criminal class 
a sort of personal interest in his murder and accounted for 
the presence of many well-known criminals who happened 
to be out of gaol at the time. The spectators in the gal- 
lery included men whom the murdered man had sen- 
tenced and men who had been fortunate enough to escape 
being sentenced by him owing to the vagaries of juries. 


90 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


There were pickpockets, sneak thieves, confidence men, 
burglars, and receivers among the occupants of the gal- 
lery, and many of them had brought with them the ladies 
who assisted them professionally or presided over their 
homes when they were not in gaol. 

“I wouldn't be surprised if the man we want is among 
that bunch," said Rolfe to Inspector Chippenfield. 

“You’ve a lot to learn about them, my boy," said his 
superior. 

“There is Crewe up among them," continued Rolfe. 
“I wonder what he thinks he’s after.” 

Inspector Chippenfield gave a glance in the direc- 
tion of Crewe, but did not deign to give any sign of 
recognition. The fact that Crewe by his presence in 
the gallery seemed to entertain the idea that the mur- 
derer might be found among the occupants of that part 
of the court could not be as lightly dismissed as Rolfe’s 
vague suggestion. It annoyed Inspector Chippenfield 
to think that Crewe might be nearer at the moment 
to the murderer than he himself was, even though that 
proximity was merely physical and unsupported by evi- 
dence or even by any theory. It would have been a 
great relief to him if he had known that Crewe’s object 
in going to the gallery was not to mix with the criminal 
classes, but in order to keep a careful survey of what 
took place in the body of the court without making him- 
self too prominent. 

Mr. Holymead, K.C., arrived, and members of the 
junior bar deferentially made room for him. He shook 
iiands with some of these gentlemen and also with In- 
spector Chippenfield, much to the gratification of that 
officer. Miss Fewbanks arrived in a taxi-cab a few min- 
utes before the appointed hour of eleven. She was ac- 
companied by Mrs. Holymead, and they were shown 
into a private room by Police-Constable Flack, who had 
received instructions from Inspector Chippenfield to be on 
the lookout for the murdered man’s daughter. 

Miss Fewbanks and Mrs. Holymead had been almost 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


9i 


inseparable since the tragedy had been discovered. Imme- 
diately on the arrival of Miss Fewbanks from Dellmere, 
Mrs. Holymead had gone out to Riversbrook to condole 
with her, and to support her in her great sorrow. But the 
murdered man’s daughter, who, on account of having lived 
apart from her father, had developed a self-reliant spirit, 
seemed to be less overcome by the horror of the tragedy 
than Mrs. Holymead was. It was with a feeling that 
there was something lacking in her own nature, that 
the girl realised that Mrs. Holymead’s grief for the vio- 
lent death of a man who had been her husband’s dearest 
friend was greater than her own grief at the loss of 
a father. 

One of the directions in which Mrs. Holymead’s grief 
found expression was in a feverish desire to know all 
that was being done to discover the murderer. She dis- 
played continuous interest in the investigations of the 
detectives engaged on the case, and she had implored 
Miss Fewbanks to let her know when any important dis- 
covery was made. She applauded the action of her 
young friend in engaging such a famous detective as 
Crewe, and declared that if anyone could unravel the 
mystery, Crewe would do it. She had been particularly 
anxious to hear through Miss Fewbanks what Crewe’s 
impressions were, with regard to the tragedy. 

The court was opened punctually, the coroner being Mr. 
Bodyman, a stout, clean-shaven, white-haired gentleman 
who had spent thirty years of his life in the stuffy atmos- 
phere of police courts hearing police-court cases. Police- 
Inspector Seldon nodded in reply to the inquiring glance 
of the coroner, and the inquest was opened. 

The first witness was Miss Fewbanks. She was 
dressed in deep black and was obviously a little unnerved. 
In a low tone she said she had identified the body as that 
of her father. She was staying at her father’s country 
house in Dellmere, Sussex, when the crime was commit- 
ted. She had no knowledge of anyone who was evilly 


92 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


disposed towards her father. He had never spoken to her 
of anyone who cherished a grudge against him. 

Evidence relating to the circumstances in which the 
body was found was given by Police-Constable Flack. 
He described the position of the room in which the body 
was found, and the attitude in which the body was 
stretched. He was on duty in the neighbourhood of Tan- 
ton Gardens on the night of the murder, but saw no sus- 
picious characters and heard no sounds. 

The evidence of Hill was chiefly a repetition of what 
he had told Inspector Chippenfield as to his movements 
on the day of the crime, and his methods of inspecting the 
premises three times a week in accordance with his mas- 
ter’s orders. He knew nothing about Sir Horace’s sud- 
den return from Scotland. His first knowledge of this 
was the account of the murder, which he read in the 
papers. 

Inspector Chippenfield gave evidence for the purpose of 
producing the letter received at Scotland Yard announc- 
ing that Sir Horace Fewbanks had been murdered. The 
letter was passed up to the coroner for his inspection, and 
when he had examined it he sent it to the foreman of the 
jury. Then followed medical evidence, which showed 
that death was due to a bullet wound and could not have 
been self-inflicted. 

The coroner, in his summing-up, dwelt upon the loss 
sustained by the Judiciary by the violent death of one of 
its most distinguished members, and the jury, after a 
retirement of a few minutes, brought in a verdict of 
wilful murder by some person or persons unknown. 

As the occupants of the court filed out into the street, 
Crewe, who was watching Holymead, noticed the K.C. 
give a slight start when he saw Miss Fewbanks and 
his wife. Mr. Holymead went up to the ladies and 
shook hands with Miss Fewbanks, and to Crewe it 
seemed as if he was on the point of shaking hands with 
his wife, but he stopped himself awkwardly. He saw the 
ladies into their cab, and, raising his hat, went off. As 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


93 


Mr. Holymead had seen Miss Fewbanks in court when 
she gave evidence, it was obvious to Crewe that he could 
not have been surprised at meeting her outside. It was 
therefore the presence of his wife which had surprised 
him. That fact — if it were a fact — opened a limitless field 
of speculation to Crewe, but in spite of the possibility 
of error — a possibility which he frankly recognised — 
he was pleased with himself for having noticed the inci- 
dent. To him it seemed to provide another link in the 
chain he was constructing. It harmonised with Taylor’s 
story of Mr. Holymead’s decision to stay at Verney’s in- 
stead of entering his own home the night Taylor drove 
him from Hyde Park Corner. 

Rolfe also possessed the professional faculty of ob- 
servation, but in a different degree. He had seen Mr. 
Holymead talking to his wife and Miss Fewbanks, but 
he had noticed nothing but gentlemanly ease in the bar- 
rister’s manner. What did astonish him in connection 
with Mr. Holymead was that after he had left the ladies 
and was walking in the direction of the cab-rank he 
spoke to one of the former occupants of the gallery. 
This was a man known to the police and his associates 
as “Kincher.” His name was Kemp, and how he had 
obtained his nick-name was not known. He was a crim- 
inal by profession and had undergone several heavy sen- 
tences for burglary. He was a thick-set man of me- 
dium height, about fifty years of age. Apart from a 
rather heavy lower jaw, he gave no external indication of 
his professional pursuits, but looked, with his brown and 
weather-beaten face and rough blue reefer suit, not unlike 
a seafaring man. The likeness was heightened by a 
tattooed device which covered the back of his right hand, 
and a slight roll in his gait when he walked. But appear- 
ances are deceptive, for Mr. Kemp, at liberty or in gaol, 
had never been out of London in his life. He was born 
and bred a London thief, and had served all his sentences 
at Wormwood Scrubbs. For over a minute he and Mr. 
Holymead remained in conversation. Rolfe would have 


94 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


described it officially as familiar conversation, but that 
description would have overlooked the deference, the 
sense of inferiority, in “Kincher’s” manner. For a time 
Rolfe was puzzled by the incident, but he eventually 
lighted on an explanation which satisfied himself. It was 
that in the earlier days before Mr. Holymead had reached 
such a prominent position at the bar, he had been engaged 
in practice in the criminal courts, and “Kincher” had been 
one of his clients. 

With a cheerful smile Holymead brought the conversa- 
tion to an end and went on his way. Kemp walked on 
hurriedly in the opposite direction. He had his eyes 
on a young man whom he had seen in the gallery, and 
who had seemed to avoid his eye. It was obvious to him 
that this young man, for whom he had been on the watch 
when Mr. Holymead spoke to him, had seized the oppor- 
tunity to slip past him while he was talking to the eminent 
K.C. The young man, even from the back view, seemed 
to be well-dressed. 

“Hallo, Fred,” exclaimed Mr. Kemp, as he reached 
within a yard or two of his quarry. 

“Hallo, Kincher,” replied the young man, turning 
round. “I didn’t notice you. Were you up at the 
court ?” 

“Yes, I looked in,” said Mr. Kemp. “There wasn’t 
much doing, was there?” 

“No,” said Fred. 

“He won’t trouble us any more,” pursued Mr. Kemp. 

“No.” The young man seemed to have a dread of 
helping along the conversation, and therefore sought 
refuge in monosyllables. 

Mr. Kemp coughed before he formed his question. 

“Did you go up there that night ?” 

“No.” The reply came instantaneously, but the young 
man followed it up with a look of inquiry to ascertain 
if his denial was believed. 

“A good thing as it happened,” said Mr. Kemp. 

“I had nothing to do with it,” said Fred, earnestly. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


95 


“I never said you had,” replied Mr. Kemp. 

“Nothing whatever to do with it,” continued the young 
man with emphasis. “That’s not my sort of game.” 

“I’m not saying anything, Fred,” replied the elder man. 
“But whoever done it might have done it by accident- 
like.” 

“Accident or no accident, I had nothing to do with 
it, thank God.” 

“That is all right, Fred. I’m not saying you know 
anything about it. But even if you did you’d find I could 
be trusted. I don’t go blabbing round to everybody.” 

“I know you don’t. But as I said before I had nothing 
to do with it. I didn’t go there that night — I changed 
my mind.” / 

“A very lucky thing then, because if they do look you 
up you can prove an alibi.” 

“Yes,” said Fred, “I can prove an alibi easy enough. 
But what makes you talk about them looking me up? 
Why should they get into me — why should they look me 
up ? I’ve told you I didn’t go there.” 

“That is all right, Fred,” said the other, in a sooth- 
ing tone. “If that pal of yours keeps his mouth shut 
there is nothing to put them on your tracks. But I don’t 
like the looks of him. He seems to me a bit nervous, 
and if they put him through the third degree he’ll squeak. 
That’s my impression.” 

“If he squeaks he’ll have to settle with me,” said Fred. 
“And he’ll find there is something to pay. If he tries 
to put me away I’ll — I’ll — I’ll do him in.” 

“Kincher” instead of being horrified at this sentiment 
seemed to approve of it as the right thing to be done. 
“I’d let him know if I was you, Fred,” he said. “I didn’t 
like the look of him. The reason I came out here to-day 
was to have a look at him. And when I saw him in the 
box I said to myself, 'Well, I’m glad I’ve staked nothing 
on you, for it seems to me that you’ll crack up if the 
police shake their thumb-screws in your face.’ I felt glad 
I hadn’t accepted your invitation to make it a two-handed 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


96 

job, Fred. It was the fact that some one else I’d 
never seen had put up the job that kept me out of it 
when you asked me to go with you. A man can’t be too 
careful — especially after he’s had a long spell in ‘stir.’ 
But of course you’re all right if you changed your mind 
and didn’t go up there. But if I was you I’d have my 
alibi ready. It is no good leaving things until the*police 
are at the door and making one up on the spur of the 
moment.” 

“Yes, I’ll see about it,” said Fred. “It’s a good idea.” 

“Come in and have a drink, Fred,” said “Kincher.” 
“It will do you good. It was dry work listening to them 
talking up there about the murder.” 

Fred accompanied Mr. Kemp into the bar of the hotel 
they reached, and the elder man, after an inquiring glance 
at his companion, ordered two whiskies. “Kincher” 
added water to the contents of each glass, and, lifting 
his glass in his right hand, waited until Fred had done the 
same and then said : 

“Well, here’s luck and long life to the man that did it 
— whoever he is.” 

Fred offered no objection to this sentiment and they 
drained glasses. 


CHAPTER X 


“And so you’ve had no luck, Rolfe?” 

Inspector Chippenfield, glancing up from his official 
desk in Scotland Yard, put this question in a tone of 
voice which suggested that the speaker had expected 
nothing better. 

“Eve seen the heads of at least half a dozen likely West 
End shops,” Rolfe replied, “and they tell me there is 
nothing to indicate where the handkerchief was bought. 
The scrap of lace merely shows that it was torn off a 
good handkerchief, but there is nothing about it to show 
that the handkerchief was different in any marked way 
from the average filmy scrap of muslin and lace which 
every smart woman carries as a handkerchief. I thought 
so myself, before I started to make inquiries.” 

“Well, Rolfe, we must come at it another way,” said 
the inspector. “Undoubtedly there is a woman in the 
case, and it ought not to be impossible to locate her. 
Your theory, Rolfe, is that the murder was committed 
by some one who broke into the place while Sir Horace 
was entertaining a lady friend or waiting for the arrival 
of a lady he expected. Either the lady had not arrived 
or had left the room temporarily when the burglar broke 
into the house. He had spotted the place some days 
before and ascertained that it was empty, and when he 
found that Sir Horace had returned alone he decided 
to break in, and, covering Sir Horace with a revolver, 
try to extort money from him. A riskier but more profit- 
able game than burgling an empty house — if it came off. 
With his revolver in his hand he made his way up to 
the library. Sir Horace parleyed with him until he 
could reach his own revolver, and then got in the first 
shot but missed his man. The burglar shot him and 
97 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


98 

then bolted. The lady heard the shots, and, rushing in, 
found Sir Horace in his death agony. She was stooping 
over him with her handkerchief in her hand, and in his 
convulsive moments he caught hold of a corner of it' and 
the handkerchief was torn.- The lady left the place and 
on arrival home concocted that letter which was sent here 
telling us that Sir Horace had been murdered. Is 
that it?” 

“Yes,” assented Rolfe. “Of course, I don’t lay it down 
that everything happened just as you’ve said. But that’s 
my idea of the crime. It accounts for all the clues we’ve 
picked up, and that is something.” 

“It is an ingenious theory and it does you credit,” said 
the inspector, who had not forgotten that he had pro- 
posed to Rolfe that they should help one another to 
the extent of taking one another fully into each other’s 
confidence, for the purpose of getting ahead of Crewe. 
“But you have overlooked the fact that it is possible to 
account in another way for all the clues we have picked 
up. Suppose Sir Horace’s return from Scotland was 
due to a message from a lady friend; suppose the lady 
went to see him accompanied by a friend whom Sir 
Horace did not like — a friend of whom Sir Horace was 
jealous. Suppose they asked for money — blackmail — and 
there was a quarrel in which Sir Horace was shot. Then 
we have your idea as to how the lady’s handkerchief 
was torn — I agree with that in the main. The lady and 
her friend fled from the place. Later in the night the 
place is burgled by some one who has had his eye on it 
for some time, and on entering the library he is astounded 
to find the dead body of the owner. Suppose he went 
home, and on thinking things over sent the letter to Scot- 
land Yard with the idea that if the police got on to his 
tracks about the burglary the fact that he had told us 
about the murder would show he had nothing to do with 
killing Sir Horace.” 

“That is a good theory, too,” said Rolfe, in a medi- 
tative tone. “And the only person who can tell us which 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


99 

is the right one is Sir Horaces lady friend. The problem 
is to find her.” 

“Right,” said the inspector approvingly. “And while 
you have been making inquiries at the shops about 
the handkerchief I have been down to the Law Courts 
branch of the Equity Bank where Sir Horace kept his ac- 
count. It occurred to me that a look at Sir Horace’s 
account might help us. You know the sort of man he was 
— you know his weakness for the ladies. But he was 
careful. I looked through his private papers out at 
Riversbrook expecting to get on the track of something 
that would show some one had been trying to blackmail 
him over an entanglement with a woman, but I found 
nothing. I couldn’t even find any feminine correspond- 
ence. If Sir Horace was in the habit of getting letters 
from ladies he was also in the habit of destroying them. 
No doubt he adopted that precaution when his wife was 
alive, and found it such a wise one that he kept it up 
when there was less need for it. But a weakness for 
the ladies costs money, Rolfe, as you know, and that is 
why I had a look at his banking account. He made some 
payments that it would be worth while to trace — pay- 
ments to West End drapers and that sort of thing. Of 
course, Sir Horace, being a cautious man and occupying 
a public position, might not care to flaunt his weakness 
in the eyes of West End shopkeepers, and instead of pay- 
ing the accounts of his lady friend of the moment, may 
have given her the money and trusted to her paying the 
bills — a thing that women of that kind are never in a 
hurry to do. In that case the payments to West End 
shopkeepers are for goods supplied to his daughter. How- 
ever, I’ve taken a note of the names, dates, and amounts 
of a number of them, and I want you to see the man- 
agers of these shops.” 

' “We are getting close to it now,” said Rolfe, approv- 
ingly. 

“I think so,” was the modest reply of his superior. 
“There is one thing about Sir Horace’s account which 


IOO 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


struck me as peculiar. Every four weeks for the past 
eight months Sir Horace drew a cheque for £ 24 , and 
every cheque of the kind was made payable to Number 
365. Now, unless he wished to hide the nature of the 
transaction from his bankers, why not put in the cheque 
in the name of the person who received the money? It 
couldn’t have been for his personal use, for in that case 
he would have made the cheques payable to self. Be- 
sides, a man with a banking account doesn’t draw a regu- 
lar £24 every four weeks for personal expenses. He 
draws a cheque just when he wants a few pounds, instead 
of carrying five-pound notes about with him. I asked 
the bank manager about these cheques and he looked up 
a couple of them and found they had been cashed over 
the counter. So he called up the cashier and from him 
I learnt that Sir Horace came in and cashed them. As 
far as he can remember Sir Horace cashed all these £24 
cheques. I assume he did so because he realised that 
there was less likely to be comment in the bank than if 
a well-dressed good-looking young lady arrived at the 
bank with them. This £24 a month suggests that Sir 
Horace had something choice and not too expensive 
stowed away in a fiat. That is a matter on which Hill 
ought to be able to throw some light. If he knows any- 
thing I’ll get it out of him. It struck me as extraordinary 
that Sir Horace should have taken Hill into his service 
knowing what he was. But this, apparently, is the ex- 
planation. He knew that Hill wouldn’t gossip about him 
for fear of being exposed, for that would mean that 
Hill would lose his situation and would find it impossible 
to get another one without a reference from him. We’ll 
have Hill brought here ” 

There was a knock at the door, and a boy in buttons 
entered and handed Inspector Chippenfield a card. 

“Seldon from Hampstead,” he explained to Rolfe. 
“Don’t go away yet. It may be something about this 
case.” 

Police-Inspector Seldon entered the office, and held the 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


roi 


door ajar for a man behind him. He shook hands with 
Inspector Chippenfield and Rolfe, and then motioned 
his companion to a chair. 

‘‘This is Mr. Robert Evans, the landlord of the Flower- 
dew Hotel, Covent Garden,” he explained. He looked at 
Mr. Evans with the air of a police-court inspector waiting 
for a witness to corroborate his statement, but as that 
gentleman remained silent he sharply asked, “Isn't that 
so ?” 

“Quite right,” said Mr. Evans, in a moist, husky voice. 

He was a short fat man, with an extremely red face and 
bulging eyes, which watered very much and apparently 
required to be constantly mopped with a handkerchief 
which he carried in his hand. This peculiarity gave Mr. 
Evans the appearance of a man perpetually in mourning, 
and this effect was heightened by a species of incipient 
palsy which had seized on his lower facial muscles, and 
caused his lips to tremble violently. He was bald in the 
front of the head but not on the top. The baldness over 
the temples had joined hands and left isolated over the 
centre of the forehead a small tuft of hair, which, with 
the playfulness of second childhood, showed a tendency 
to curl. 

“Yes, you’re quite right,” he repeated huskily, as 
though some one had doubted the statement. “Evans is 
my name and I’m not ashamed of it.” 

“He came to me this morning and told me that Hill 
gave false evidence at the inquest yesterday,” Inspector 
Seldon explained. “So I brought him along to see 
you.” 

“False evidence — Hill?” exclaimed Inspector Chippen- 
field, with keen interest. “Let us hear about it.” 

“Well, you will remember Hill said he was at home 
on the night of the murder,” pursued Inspector Seldon. 
“I looked up his depositions before I came away and 
what he said was this : ‘I took my daughter to the Zoo 
in the afternoon. We left the Zoo at half past five and 
went home and had tea. My wife then took the child 


102 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


to the picture-palace and I remained at home. I did not 
go out that night. They returned about half-past ten, 
and after supper we all went to bed/ But Evans tells 
me he saw Hill in his bar at three o’clock on the morning 
of the 19th of August. He has an early license for the ac- 
commodation of the Covent Garden traffic. He can swear 
to Hill. A man who goes to bed at half-past ten has no 
right to be wandering about Covent Garden at 3 a. m. 
And besides. Hill told us nothing about this. So I brought 
Evans along to see what you make of it.” 

Inspector Chippenfield had taken up a pencil and was 
making a few notes. 

‘‘Very interesting indeed,” he said. Then he turned to 
Evans and asked, “Are you sure you saw Hill in your bar 
at three a. m. ? There is no possibility of a mistake ?” 

“He is the man who was knocked down outside by a 
porter running into him,” said Mr. Evans, mopping his 
eyes. “I could bring half a dozen witnesses who will 
swear to him.” 

“You see, it’s this way,” interpolated Inspector Seldon, 
taking up the landlord’s narrative. His police-court train- 
ing had taught him to bring out the salient points of a 
story, and he was naturally of the opinion that he could 
tell another man’s story better than the man could tell 
it himself. “Hill was staring about him — it was prob- 
ably the first time he had been to Covent Garden in the 
early morning — and got knocked over. He was stunned, 
and some porters took him in to the bar, sat him on a 
form, and poured some rum into him. Some of the 
porters were for ringing up the ambulance; others were 
for carrying Hill off to the hospital, but he soon recov- 
ered. However, he sat there for about twenty minutes, 
and after having several drinks at his own expense he 
went away. Evans served him with the drinks.” 

“Good,” said Inspector Chippenfield, who liked the cir- 
cumstantial details of the story. “And you can get half 
a dozen porters to identify him?” 

“Bill Cribb, Harry Winch, Charlie Brown, a fellow 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


103 

they call ‘Green Violets’ — I don’t know his real 
name ” 

Mr. Evans was calling on his memory for further 
names but was stopped by Inspector Chippenfield. 

“That will do very well*. And how did you happen to 
be at the inquest at Hampstead ? That is a bit out of your 
way.” 

Mr. Evans mopped his eyes, and Inspector Seldon took 
upon himself to reply for him. “He has a brother-in- 
law in the trade at Hampstead — keeps the Three Jugs in 
Coulter Street. Evans had to go out to see his brother- 
in-law on business, and his brother-in-law took him along 
to the court out of curiosity.” 

Inspector Chippenfield nodded. 

“Rolfe,” he said, “take down Mr. Evans’s statement 
outside and get him to sign it. Don’t go away when 
you’ve finished. I want you.” 

Mr. Evans, even if he felt that full justice had been 
done to his story by Inspector Seldon, was disappointed 
at the police officer’s failure to do justice to his manly 
scruples in coming forward to give evidence against a 
man who had never done him any harm. Addressing 
Inspector Chippenfield he said : 

“I don’t altogether like mixing myself up in this busi- 
ness. That isn’t my way. If I have a thing to say to a 
man I like to say it to his face. I don’t like a man to 
say things behind a man’s back, that is, if he calls him- 
self a man. But I thought over this thing after leaving 
the court and hearing this chap Hill say he hadn’t left 
home that night, and I talked it over with' my wife ” 

“You did the right thing,” said Inspector Chippenfield, 
with the emphasis of a man who had profited by the 
triumph of right. 

Mr. Evans was under the impression that the inspec- 
tor’s approval referred chiefly to the part he had played 
as a husband in talking over his perplexity with his wife, 
rather than the part he had played as a man in revealing 
that Hill had lied in his evidence. 


104 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


"I always do,” he said. “My wife’s one of the sensible 
sort, and when a man takes her advice he don’t go far 
wrong. She advised me to go straight to the police-sta- 
tion and tell them all I know. Tt is a cruel murder/ she 
said, ‘and who knows but it might be our turn next?’ ” 

This example of the imaginative element in feminine 
logic made no impression on the practical official who 
listened to the admiring husband. 

“That is all right,” said Inspector Chippenfield sooth- 
ingly. “I understand your scruples. They do you credit. 
But an honest man like you doesn’t want to shield a 
criminal from justice — least of all a cold-blooded mur- 
derer.” 

When Rolfe returned to his superior with Evans’s 
signed statement in his hand, he found the inspector pre- 
paring to leave the office. 

“Put on your hat and come with me,” said the in- 
spector. “We will go out and see Mrs. Hill. I’ll 
frighten the truth out of her and then tackle Hill. He 
is sure to be up at Riversbrook, and we can go on there 
from Camden Town.” 

While on the way to Camden Town by Tube, In- 
spector Chippenfield arranged his plans with the ob- 
ject of saving time. He would interview Mrs. Hill and 
while he was doing so Rolfe could make inquiries at the 
neighbouring hotels about Hill. It was the inspector’s 
conviction that a man who had anything to do with a 
murder would require a steady supply of stimulants next 
day. 

Mrs. Hill kept a small confectionery shop adjoining a 
cinema theatre to supplement her husband’s wages by a 
little earnings of her own in order to support her child. 
Although the shop was an unpretentious one, and ca- 
tered mainly for the ha’p’orths of the juvenile patrons of 
the picture house next door, it was called “The Camden 
Town Confectionery Emporium,” and the title was 
printed over the little shop in large letters. Inspector 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 105 

Chippenfield walked into the empty shop, and rapped 
sharply on the counter. 

A little thin woman, with prematurely grey hair, and 
a depressed expression, appeared from the back in re- 
sponse to the summons. She started nervously as her 
eye encountered the police uniform, but she waited to be 
spoken to. 

“Is your name Hill?” asked the inspector sternly. 
“Mrs. Emily Hill?” 

The woman nodded feebly, her frightened eyes fixed 
on the inspector’s face. 

“Then I want to have a word with you,” continued the 
inspector, walking through the shop into the parlour. 
“Come in here and answer my questions.” 

Mrs. Hill followed him timidly into the room he had 
entered. It was a small, shabbily-furnished apartment, 
and the inspector’s massive proportions made it look 
smaller still. He took up a commanding position on the 
strip of drugget which did duty as a hearth-rug, and 
staring fiercely at her, suddenly commenced : 

“Mrs. Hill, where was your husband on the night of 
the 18th of August, when his employer, Sir Horace Few- 
banks, was murdered ?” 

Mrs. Hill shrank before that fierce gaze, and said, in 
a low tone : 

“Please, sir, he was at home.” 

“At home, was he ? I’m not so sure of that. Tell me all 
about your husband’s movements on that day and night. 
What time did he come home, to begin with ?” 

“He came home early in the afternoon to take our 
little girl to the Zoo — which was a treat she had been 
looking forward to for a long while. I couldn’t go my- 
self, there being the shop to look after. So Mr. Hill and 
Daphne went to the Zoo, and after they came home and 
had tea I took her to the pictures while Mr. Hill minded 
the shop. It was not the picture-palace next door, but 
the big one in High Street, where they were showing 


106 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

‘East Lynne/ Then when we come home about ten 
o'clock we all had supper and went to bed.” 

“And your husband didn’t go out again ?” 

“No, sir. When I got up in the morning to bring him 
a cup of tea he was still sound asleep.” 

“But might he not have gone out in the night while 
you were asleep ?” 

“No, sir. I’m a very light sleeper, and I wake at the 
least stir.” 

Mrs. Hill’s story seemed to ring true enough, although 
she kept her eyes fixed on her interrogator with a kind 
of frightened brightness. Inspector Chippenfield looked 
at her in silence for a few seconds. 

“So that’s the whole truth, is it ?” he said at length. 

“Yes, sir,” the woman earnestly assured him. “You 
can ask Mr. Hill and he’ll tell you the same thing.” 

Something reminiscent in Inspector Chippenfield’s mind 
responded to this sentence. He pondered over it for 
a moment, and then remembered that Hill had applied the 
same phrase to his wife. Evidently there had been col- 
lusion, a comparing of tales beforehand. The woman 
had been tutored by her cunning scoundrel of a husband, 
but undoubtedly her tale was false. 

“The whole truth ?” said the inspector, again. 

“Yes, sir,” answered Mrs. Hill. 

“Now, look here,” said the police officer, in his stern- 
est tones, as he shook a warning finger at the little woman, 
“I know you are lying. I know Hill didn’t sleep in the 
house that night. He was seen near Riversbrook in the 
early part of the night and he was seen wandering about 
Covent Garden after the murder had been committed. It 
is no use lying to me, Mrs. Hill. If you want to save 
your husband from being arrested for this murder you’ll 
tell the truth. What time did he leave here that night ?” 

“I’ve already told you the truth, sir,” replied the little 
woman. “He didn’t leave the place after he came back 
from the Zoo.” 

Inspector Chippenfield was puzzled. It seemed to 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


io 7 


him that Mrs. Hill was a woman of weak character, and 
yet she stuck firmly to her story. Perhaps Evans had 
made a mistake in identifying Hill as the man who had 
been carried into his bar after being knocked down. Noth- 
ing was more common than mistakes of identification. 
His glance wandered round the room, as though in 
search of some inspiration for his next question. His 
eye took mechanical note of the trumpery articles o£ 
rickety furniture; wandered over the cheap almanac 
prints which adorned the walls; but became riveted in 
the cheap overmantel which surmounted the fire-place. 
For, in the slip of mirror which formed the centre of 
that ornament, Inspector Chippenfield caught sight of 
the features of Mrs. Hill frowning and shaking her 
head at somebody invisible. He turned his head warily, 
but she was too quick for him, and her features were im- 
passive again when he looked at her. Following the direc- 
tion indicated by the mirror, Inspector Chippenfield 
saw Mrs. Hill had been signalling through a window 
which looked into the back yard. He reached it in a step 
and threw open the window. A small and not over-clean 
little girl was just leaving the yard by the gate. 

Inspector Chippenfield called to her pleasantly, and she 
retraced her steps with a frightened face. 

“Come in, my dear, I want you,” said the inspector, 
wreathing his red face into a smile. “Pm fond of little 
girls.” 

The little girl smiled, nodded her head, and presently 
appeared in response to the inspector's invitation. He 
glanced at Mrs. Hill, noticed that her face was grey 
and drawn with sudden terror. She opened her mouth as 
though to speak, but no words came. 

The inspector lifted the child on to his knee. She 
nestled to him confidingly enough, and looked up into 
his face with an artless glance. 

“What is your name, my dear ?” 

“Daphne, sir — Daphne Hill.” 

“How old are you, Daphne?” 


108 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

“Please, sir, Pm eight next birthday.” 

“Why, you’re quite a big girl, Daphne ! Do you go to 
school?” 

“Oh, yes, sir. I’m in the second form.” 

“Do you like going to school, Daphne ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I suppose you like going to the Zoo better ? Did you 
like going with father the other day ?” 

The child’s eyes sparkled with retrospective pleasure. 

“Oh, yes,” she said, delightedly. “We saw all kinds of 
things : lions and tigers, and elephants. I had a ride on 
a elephant” — her eyes grew big with the memory — “an’ 
’e took a bun with his long nose out of my hand.” 

“That was splendid, Daphne ! Which did you like best 
— the Zoo or the pictures ?” 

“I liked them both,” she replied. 

“Was Father at home when you came home from the 
pictures ?” 

“No,” said the little girl innocently. “He was out.” 

Mrs. Hill, standing a little way off with fear on her 
face, uttered an- inarticulate noise, and took a step to- 
wards the inspector and her daughter. 

“Better not interfere, Mrs. Hill, unless you want to 
make matters worse,” said the inspector meaningly. 
“Now, tell me, Daphne, dear, when did your father come 
home?” 

“Not till morning,” replied the little girl, with a timid 
glance at her mother. 

“How do you know that ?” 

“Because I slept in Mother’s bed that night with 
Mother, like I always do when Father is away, but Father 
came home in the morning and lifted me into my own bed, 
because he said he wanted to go to bed.” 

“What time was that, Daphne?” 

“I don’t know, sir.” 

“It was light, Daphne? You could see?” 

“Oh, yes, sir.” 

Inspector Chippenfield told the child she was a good 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


109 


girl, and gave her sixpence. The little one slipped 
off his knee and ran across to her mother with delight, 
to show the coin; all unconscious that she had betrayed 
her father. The mother pushed the child from her with 
a heart-broken gesture. 

A heavy step was heard in the shop, and the inspector, 
looking through the window, saw Rolfe. He opened the 
door leading from the shop and beckoned his subordi- 
nate in. 

Rolfe was excited, and looked like a man burdened with 
weighty news. He whispered a word in Inspector Chip- 
penfield’s ear. 

“Let’s go into the shop,” said Inspector Chippen- 
field promptly. “But, first, I’ll make things safe here.” 
He locked the door leading to the kitchen, put the key 
into his pocket, and followed his colleague into the shop. 
“Now, Rolfe, what is it?” 

“I’ve found out that Hill put in nearly the whole day 
after the murder drinking in a wine tavern. He sat there 
like a man in a dream and spoke to nobody. The only 
thing he took any interest in was the evening papers. He 
bought about a dozen of them during the afternoon.” 

“Where was this ?” asked the inspector. 

“At a little wine tavern in High Street, where he’s never 
been seen before. The man who keeps the place gave 
me a good description of him, though. Hill went there 
about ten o’clock in the morning, and started drinking 
port wine, and as fast as the evening papers came out he 
sent the boy out for them, glanced through them, and 
then crumpled them up. He stayed there till after 
five o’clock. By that time the 6.30 editions would reach 
Camden Town, and if you remember it was the six- 
thirty editions which had the first news of the murder. 
The tavern-keeper declares that Hill drank nearly two 
bottles of Tarragona port, in threepenny glasses, during 
the day.” 

“I should have credited Hill with a better taste in 
port, with his opportunities as Sir Horace Fewbanks’s 


no 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


butler,” said Inspector Chippenfield drily. “What you 
have found out, Rolfe, only goes to bear out my own 
discovery that Hill is deeply implicated in this affair. 
I have found out, for my part, that Hill did not spend 
the night of the murder at home here.” 

There was a ring of triumph in Inspector Chippen- 
field’s voice as he announced this discovery, but be- 
fore Rolfe could make any comment upon it there was a 
quick step behind them, and both men turned, to see 
Hill. The butler was astonished at finding the two police 
officers in his wife's shop. He hesitated, and apparently 
his first impulse was to turn into the street again; but, 
realising the futility of such a course, he came forward 
with an attempt to smooth his worried face into a con- 
ciliatory smile. 

“Hill !” said Inspector Chippenfield sternly. “Once and 
for all, will you own up where you were on the night of 
the murder?” 

Hill started slightly, then, with admirable self-com- 
mand, he recovered himself and became as tight-lipped 
and reticent as ever. 

“I've already told you, sir,” he replied smoothly. “I 
spent it in my own home. If you ask my wife, sir, she’ll 
tell you I never stirred out of the house after I came back 
from taking my little girl to the Zoo.” 

“I know she will, you scoundrel !” burst out the choleric 
inspector. “She’s been well tutored by you, and she 
tells the tale very well. But it’s no good, Hill. You 
forgot to tutor your little daughter, and she’s innocently 
put you away. What’s more, you were seen in London 
before daybreak the night after the murder. The game’s 
up, my man.” 

Inspector Chippenfield produced a pair of handcuffs 
as he spoke. Hill passed his tongue over his dry lips be- 
fore he was able to speak. 

“Don’t put them on me,” he said imploringly, as In- 
spector Chippenfield advanced towards him. “I’ll — I’ll 
confess !” 


CHAPTER XI 


Inspector Chippenfield’s first words were a warning. 

“You know what you are saying, Hill ?” he asked. “You 
know what this means? Any statement you make may 
be used in evidence against you at your trial.” 

‘Til tell you everything,” faltered Hill. The impassive 
mask of the well- trained English servant had dropped 
from him, and he stood revealed as a trembling elderly 
man with furtive eyes, and a painfully shaken manner. 
“Til be glad to tell you everything,” he declared, laying 
a twitching hand on the inspector's coat. “I've not had a 
minute’s peace or rest since — since it happened.” 

The dry official manner in which Inspector Chip- 
penfield produced a note-book was in striking contrast 
to the trapped man’s attitude. 

“Go ahead,” he commanded, wetting his pencil between 
his lips. 

Before Hill could respond a small boy entered the shop 
— a ragged, shock-headed dirty urchin, bareheaded and 
barefooted. He tapped loudly on the counter with a 
halfpenny. 

“What do you want, boy ?” roughly asked the inspector. 

“A ’a’porth of blackboys,” responded the child, in the 
confident tone of a regular customer. 

“If you’ll permit me, sir, I’ll serve him,” said Hill and 
he glided behind the little counter, took some black sticky 
sweetmeats from one of the glass jars on the shelf and 
gave them to the boy, who popped one in his mouth and 
scurried off. 

“I think we had better go inside and hear what Hill 
has to say, Inspector, while Mrs. Hill minds the shop,” 
said Rolfe. He had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hill’s 
white frightened face peering through the dirty little 
glass pane in the parlour door. 

ui 


1 12 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


Inspector Chippenfield approved of the idea. 

“We don’t want to spoil your wife’s business, Hill — 
she’s likely to need it,” he said, with cruel official banter. 
“Come here, Mrs. Hill,” he said, raising his voice. 

The faded little woman appeared in response to the 
summons, bringing the child with her. She shot a fright- 
ened glance at her husband, which Inspector Chippenfield 
intercepted. 

“Never mind looking at your husband, Mrs. Hill,” he 
said roughly. “You’ve done your best for him, and the 
only thing to be told now is the truth. Now you and 
your daughter can stay in the shop. We want your hus- 
band inside.” 

Mrs. Hill clasped her hands quickly. 

“Oh, what is it, Henry?” she said. “Tell me what has 
happened? What have they found out?” 

“Keep your mouth shut,” commanded her husband 
harshly. “This way, sir, if you please.” 

Inspector Chippenfield and Rolfe followed him into 
the parlour. 

“Now, Hill,” impatiently said Inspector Chippenfield. 

The butler raised his head wearily. 

“I suppose I may as well begin at the beginning and tell 
you everything,” he said. 

“Yes,” replied the inspector, “it’s not much use keeping 
anything back now.” 

“Oh, it’s not a case of keeping anything back,” re- 
plied Hill. “You’re too clever for me, and I’ve made up 
my mind to tell you everything, but I thought I might 
be able to cut the first part short, so as to save your time. 
But so that you’ll understand everything I’ve got to go a 
long way back — shortly after I entered Sir Horace Few- 
banks’s service. In fact, I hadn’t been long with him 
before I began to see he was leading a strange life — a 
double life, if I may say so. A servant in a gentleman’s 
house — particularly one in my position — sees a good deal 
he is not meant to see ; in fact, he couldn’t close his eyes 
to it if he wanted to, as no doubt you, from your experi- 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


n 3 

ence, sir, know very well. A confidential servant sees 
and hears a lot of things, sir.” 

Inspector Chippenfield nodded his head sharply, but he 
did not speak. 

“I think Sir Horace trusted me, too,” continued Hill 
humbly, “more than he would have trusted most servants, 
on account of my — my past. I fancy, if I may say so, 
that he counted on my gratitude because he had given 
me a fresh start in life. And he was quite right — at 
first.” Hill dropped his voice and looked down as he 
uttered the last two words. “I’d have done anything for 
him. But as I was saying, sir, I hadn’t been long in his 

house before I found out that he had a — a weakness ” 

Hill timidly bowed his head as though apologising to the 
dead judge for assailing his character — “a weakness for 
— for the ladies. Sometimes Sir Horace went off for 
the week-end without saying where he was going and 
sometimes he went out late at night and didn’t return 
till after breakfast. Then he had ladies visiting him at 
Riversbrook — not real ladies, if you understand, sir. 
Sometimes there was a small party of them, and then 
they made a noise singing music-hall songs and drinking 
wine, but generally they came alone. Towards the end 
there was one who came a lot oftener than the others. 
I found out afterwards that her name was Fanning — 
Doris Fanning. She was a very pretty young woman, 
and Sir Horace seemed very fond of her. I knew that 
because I’ve heard him talking to her in the library. Sir 
Horace had rather a loud voice, and I couldn’t help over- 
hearing him sometimes, when I took things to his rooms. 

“One night, — it was before Sir Horace left for Scot- 
land — a rainy gusty night, this young woman came. I 
forgot to mention that when Sir Horace expected visitors 
he used to tell me to send the servants to bed early. He 
told me to do so this night, saying as usual, ‘You under- 
stand, Hill?’ and I replied, ‘Yes, Sir Horace.’ The 
young woman came about half-past ten o’clock, and I 
let her in the side door and showed her up to the library 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


1 14 

on the first floor, where he used to sit and work and read. 
Half an hour afterwards I took up some refreshments 
— some sandwiches and a small bottle of champagne for 
the young lady — and then went back downstairs till Sir 
Horace rang for me to let the lady out, which was gener- 
ally about midnight. But this night, I’d hardly been 
downstairs more than a quarter of an hour, when I heard 
a loud crash, followed by a sort of scream. Before I 
could get out of my chair to go upstairs I heard the study 
door open, and Sir Horace called out, ‘Hill, come here !’ 

“I went upstairs as quick as I could, and the door of 
the study being wide open, I could see inside. Sir Horace 
and the young lady had evidently been having a quarrel. 
They were standing up facing each other, and the table 
at which they had been sitting was knocked over, and 
the refreshments I had taken up had been scattered all 
about. The young woman had been crying — I could see 
that at a glance — but Sir Horace looked dignified and 
the perfect gentleman — like he always was. He turned 
to me when he saw me, and said, ‘Hill, kindly show this 
young lady out/ I bowed and waited for her to follow 
me, which she did, after giving Sir Horace an angry 
look. I let her out the same way as I let her in, and 
took her through the plantation to the front gate, which 
I locked after her. When I got inside the house again, 
and was beginning to bolt up things for the night Sir 
Horace called me again and I went upstairs. ‘Hill/ he 
said, in the same calm and collected voice, ‘if that young 
lady calls again you’re to deny her admittance. That is 
all, Hill.’ And he turned back into his room again. • 

“I didn’t see her again until the morning after Sir 
Horace left for Scotland. I had arranged for the female 
servants to go to Sir Horace’s estate in the country during 
his absence, as he instructed before his departure, and 
they and I were very busy on this morning getting the 
house in order to be closed up — putting covers on the 
furniture and locking up the valuables. 

“It was Sir Horace’s custom to have this done when 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 115 

he was away every year instead of keeping the servants 
idling about the house on board wages, and the house 
was then left in my charge, as I told you, sir, and after 
the servants went to the country it was my custom to live 
at home till Sir Horace returned, coming over two or 
three times a week to look over the place and make sure 
that everything was all right. On this morning, sir, after 
superintending the servants clearing up things, I went 
outside the house to have a final look round, and to see 
that the locks of the front and back gates were in good 
working order. I was going to the back first, sir, but hap- 
pening to glance about me as I walked round the house, I 
saw the young woman that Sir Horace had ordered me 
to show out of the house the night before he went to 
Scotland, peering out from behind one of the fir trees 
of the plantation in front of the house. As soon as she 
saw that I saw her she beckoned to me. 

*T would not have taken any notice of her, only I didn't 
want the women servants to see her. Sir Horace, I knew, 
would not have liked that. So I went across to her. I 
asked her what she wanted, and I told her it was no 
use her wanting to see Sir Horace, for he had gone to 
Scotland. T don't want to see him,' she said, as impu- 
dent as brass. Tt's you I want to see, Field or Hill or 
whatever you call yourself now.' It gave me quite a 
turn, I assure you, to find that this young woman knew 
my secret, and I turned round apprehensive-like, to make 
sure that none of the servants had heard her. She noticed 
me and she laughed. ‘It’s all right. Hill,' she said. T’m 
not going to tell on you. I've just brought you a message 
from an old friend — Fred Birchill — he wants to see you 
to-night at this address.' And with that she put a bit of 
paper into my hand. I was so upset and excited that I 
said I’d be there, and she went away. 

“This Fred Birchill was a man I’d met in prison, and 
he was in the cell next to me. How he’d got on my 
tracks I had no idea, but I seemed to see all my new life 
falling to pieces now he knew. I’d tried to run straight 


ii6 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

since I served my sentence, and I knew Sir Horace would 
stand to me, but he couldn’t afford to have any scandal 
about it, and I knew that if there was any possibility of 
my past becoming known I should have to leave his em- 
ploy. And then there was my poor wife and child, and 
this little business, sir. Nothing was known about my 
past here. So I determined to go and see this Birchill, 
sir. The address she had given me was in Westminster, 
and, as my time was practically my own when Sir Horace 
wasn’t home, I went down that same evening, and when 
I got up the flight of stairs and knocked at the door it 
was a woman’s voice that said ‘Come in.’ I thought I 
recognised the voice. When I opened the door, you can 
imagine my surprise when I saw the young woman to be 
Doris Fanning, who had had the quarrel with Sir Horace 
that night and had brought me the note that morning. 
Birchill was sitting in a corner of the room, with his feet 
on another chair, smoking a pipe. ‘Come in, No. 21,’ he 
says, with an unpleasant smile, ‘come in and see an old 
friend. Put a chair for him, Doris, and leave the room.’ 

“The girl did so, and as soon as the door was closed 
behind her Birchill turned round to me and burst out, 
‘Hill, that damned employer of yours has served me a 
nasty trick, but I’m going to get even with him, and 
you’re going to help me !’ I was taken back at his words, 
but I wanted to hear more before I spoke. Then he told 
me that the young woman I had seen had been brutally 
treated by Sir Horace. She had been living in a little flat 
in Westminster on a monthly allowance which Sir Horace 
made her, but he’d suddenly cut off her allowance and 
she’d have to be turned out in the street to starve because 
she couldn’t pay her rent. ‘A nice thing,’ said Birchill 
fiercely, ‘for this high-placed loose liver to carry on like 
this with a poor innocent girl whose only fault was that 
she loved him too well. If I could show him up and 
pull him down, I would. But I’ve done time, like you, 
Hill. He was the judge who sentenced me, and if I tried 
to injure him that way my word would carry no weight; 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


n 7 


but I’ll put up a job on him that’ll make him sorry the 
longest day he lives, and you’ll help me. Sir Horace is in 
Scotland, Hill, and you’re in charge of his place. Get 
rid of the servants, Hill, and we’ll burgle his house. We 
can easily do it between us.’ ” 

At this stage of his narrative, Hill stopped and looked 
anxiously at his audience as though to gather some idea 
of their feelings before he proceeded further. But In- 
spector Chippenfield, with a fierce stare, merely remarked : 

“And you consented?” 

“I didn’t at first,” Hill retorted earnestly, “but when I 
refused he threatened me — threatened that he’d expose 
me and drag me and my wife and child down to poverty. 
I pleaded with him, but it was of no use, and at last I had 
to consent. I had some hope that in doing so I might 
find an opportunity to warn Sir Horace, but Birchill did 
not give me a chance. He insisted that the burglary 
should take place without delay. All I was to do was 
to give him a plan of the house, explain where to find the 
most valuable articles that had been left there, and wait 
for him at the flat while he committed the burglary. His 
idea in making me wait for him at the flat was to make 
sure that I didn’t play him false — put the double on him, 
as he called it — and he told the girl not to let me out of 
her sight till he came back, if anything went wrong I 
should have to pay for it when he came back. 

“In accordance with Sir Horace’s instructions, I sent 
the servants off to his country estate. It had been ar- 
ranged that Birchill was to wait for me to come over to 
the flat on the 18th of August, the night fixed for the bur- 
glary. But about 7 o’clock, while I was at Riversbrook, 
I heard the noise of wheels outside, and looking out, 
I saw to my dismay Sir Horace getting out of a taxi- 
cab with a suit-case in his hand. My first impulse was to 
tell him everything — indeed, I think that if I had had a 
chance I would have — but he came in looking very severe, 
and without saying a word about why he had returned 
from Scotland, said very sharply, ‘Hill, have the servants 


n8 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

been sent down to the country, as I directed ?’ I told him 
that they had. ‘Very good/ he said, ‘then you go away 
at once, I won’t want you any more. I want the house 
to myself to-night/ ‘Sir Horace/ I began, trembling a 
little, but he stopped me. ‘Go immediately/ he said; 
‘don’t stand there/ And he said it in such a tone that I 
was glad to go. There was something in his look that 
frightened me that night. I got across to Birchill’s place 
and found him and the girl waiting for me. I told him 
what had happened, and begged him to give up the idea 
of the burglary. But he’d been drinking heavily, and was 
in a nasty mood. First he said I’d been playing him false 
and had warned Sir Horace, but when I assured him that 
I hadn’t he insisted on going to commit the burglary just 
the same. With that he pulled out a revolver from his 
pocket, and swore with an oath that he’d put a bullet 
through me when he came back if I’d played him false 
and put Sir Horace on his guard, and that he’d put a 
bullet in the old scoundrel — meaning Sir Horace — if he 
interrupted him while he was robbing the house. 

“He sat there, cursing and drinking, till he fell asleep 
with his head on the table, snoring. I sat there not daring 
to breathe, hoping he’d sleep till morning, but Miss Fan- 
ning woke him up about nine, and he staggered to his feet 
to get out, with his revolver stuck in his coat pocket. He 
was away over three hours and the girl and I sat there 
without saying a word, just looking at each other and 
waiting for a clock on the mantelpiece to chime the 
quarters. It was a cuckoo clock, and it had just chimed 
twelve when we heard a quick step coming upstairs to the 
flat. The girl fixed her big dark eyes inquiringly on me, 
and then we heard a hoarse whisper through the keyhole 
telling us to open the door. 

“The girl ran to the door and let him in, but she 
shrieked at the sight of him when she saw him in the 
light. For he looked ghastly, and there was a spot of 
blood on his face, and his hands were smeared with it. 
He was shaking all over, and he went to the whisky bottle 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


1 19 

and drained the drop of spirit he’d left in it. Then he 
turned to us and said, ‘Sir Horace Fewbanks is dead — 
murdered !’ I suppose he read what he saw in our eyes, 
for he burst out angrily, ‘Don’t stand staring at me like 
a pair of damned fools. You don’t think I did it? As 
God’s my judge, I never did it. He was dead and stiff 
when I got there.’ 

“Then he told us his story of what had happened. He 
said that when he got to Riversbrook there was a light 
in the library and he got over the fence and hid himself 
in the garden. Then he noticed that there was a light 
in the hall and that the hall door was open. He thought 
Sir Horace had left it open by mistake, and he was going 
to creep into the house and hide himself there till after 
Sir Horace went to bed. But suddenly the light in the 
library went out and Birchill again hid behind a tree, for 
he thought Sir Horace was retiring for the night. Then 
the light in the hall went out and immediately after 
Birchill heard the hall door being closed. Then he heard 
a step on the gravel path and saw a woman walking 
quickly down the path to the gate. She was a well- 
dressed woman, and Birchill naturally thought that she 
was one of Sir Horace’s lady friends. But he thought 
it odd that Sir Horace, who was always a very polite 
gentleman to the ladies, should not have shown her off 
the premises. He waited in the garden about half an 
hour, and as everything in the house seemed quite still, 
he made his way to a side window and forced it open. 
He had an electric torch with him, and he Used this to 
find his way about the house. First of all, he wanted 
to find out in which room Sir Horace was sleeping, and 
he knew from the plan he’d made me draw for him 
which was Sir Horace’s bedroom, so he went there and 
opened the door quietly and listened. But he could not 
hear anyone breathing. Then he tried some of the other 
rooms and turned on his torch, but could see no one. He 
thought that perhaps Sir Horace had fallen asleep in a 
chair in the library, and he went there. He listened at 


120 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


the door but could hear no sound. Then he turned on 
his torch and by its light he saw a dreadful sight. Sir 
Horace was lying huddled up near the desk — dead — * 
just dead, he thought, because there were little bubbles 
of blood on his lips as if they had been blown there when 
breathing his last. He didn’t wait to see any more, but 
he turned and ran out of the house. 

"I didn’t believe his story, though Miss Fanning did, 
but he stuck to it and seemed so frightened that I thought 
there might be something in it till he brought out that 
he’d lost his revolver somewhere. Then I remembered 
the horrid threats he’d used against Sir Horace, and I 
was convinced that he had committed the murder. But 
of course I dared not let him think I suspected him, and 
I pretended to console him. But the feeling that kept 
running through my head was that both of us would 
be suspected of the murder. 

“I told this to Birchill, and that frightened him still 
more. 'What are we to do?’ he kept saying. 'We shall 
both be hanged/ Then, after a while, we recovered our- 
selves a bit and began to look at it from a more common- 
sense point of view. Nobody knew about Birchill’s visit 
to the house except our two selves and the girl, and there 
was no reason why anybody should suspect us as long as 
we kept that knowledge to ourselves. Birchill’s idea, after 
we’d talked this over, was that I should go quietly home 
to bed, and pay a visit to Riversbrook on Friday as usual, 
discover Sir Horace Fewbanks’s body, and then tell the 
police. But I didn’t like to do that for two reasons. I 
didn’t think that my nerves would be in a fit state to 
tell the police how I found the body without betraying 
to them that I knew something about it; and I couldn’t 
bear to think of Sir Horace’s body lying neglected all 
alone in that empty house till the following day — though I 
kept that reason to myself. 

“It was the girl who hit on the idea of sending a letter 
to the police. She said that it would be the best thing 
to do, because if they were informed and went to the 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


121 


house and discovered the body it wouldn’t be so difficult 
for me to face them afterwards. I agreed to that, and 
so did Birchill, who was very frightened in case I might 
give anything away, and consented on that account. The 
girl showed us how to write the letter, too — she said 
she’d often heard of anonymous letters being written 
that way — and she brought out three different pens and 
a bottle of ink and a writing pad. After we’d agreed 
what to write, she showed us how to do it, each one 
printing a letter on the paper in turn, and using a dif- 
ferent pen each time.” 

“You took care to leave no finger-prints,” said Inspec- 
tor Chippenfield. 

“We used a handkerchief to wrap our hands in,” said 
Hill. “Birchill got tired of passing the paper from one 
to another and wrote all his letters, leaving spaces for 
the girl and me to write in ours. When the letter was 
written we wrote the address on the envelope the same 
way, and stamped it. Then I went out and posted the 
letter in a pillar-box.” 

“At Covent Garden?” suggested Inspector Chippen- 
field. 

“Yes, at Covent Garden,” said Hill. 

“When I got home my wife was awake and in a terrible 
fright. She wanted to know where I’d been, but I didn’t 
tell her. I told her, though, that my very life depended 
on nobody knowing I’d been out of my own home that 
night, and I made her swear that no matter who ques- 
tioned her she’d stick to the story that I’d been at home 
all night, and in bed. She begged me to tell her why, 
and as I knew that she’d have to be told the next day, I 
told her that Sir Horace Fewbanks had been murdered. 
She buried her face in her pillow with a moan, but when 
I took an oath that I had had no hand in it she recovered, 
and promised not to tell a living soul that I had been out 
of the house and I knew I could depend on her. 

“Next morning, as soon as I got up, I hurried off to a 
little wine tavern and asked to see the morning papers. It 


1 22 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

was a foolish thing to do, because I might have known 
that nothing could have been discovered in time to get 
into the morning papers, for I hadn’t posted the letter 
until nearly four o’clock. But I was all nervous and 
upset, and as I couldn’t face my wife or settle to any- 
thing until I knew the police had got the letter and found 
the body, I — though a strictly temperate man in the 
ordinary course of life, sir — sat down in one of the 
little compartments of the place and ordered a glass of 
wine to pass the time till the first editions of the evening 
papers came out — they are usually out here about noon. 
But there was no news in the first editions, and so I 
stayed there, drinking port wine and buying the papers 
as fast as they came out. But it was not till the 6.30 
editions came out, late in the afternoon, that the papers 
had the news. I hurried home and then went up to 
Riversbrook and reported myself to you, sir.” 

As Hill finished his story he buried his face in his 
hands, and bowed his head on the table in an attitude of 
utter dejection. Rolfe, looking at him, wondered if he 
were acting a part, or if he had really told the truth. He 
looked at Inspector Chippenfield to see how he regarded 
the confession, but his superior officer was busily writing 
in his notebook. In a few moments, however, he put the 
pocket-book down on the table and turned to the butler. 

“Sit up, man,” he commanded sternly. “I want to ask 
you some questions.” 

Hill raised a haggard face. 

“Yes, sir,” he said, with what seemed to be a painful 
effort. 

“What is this girl Fanning like?” 

“Rather a showy piece of goods, if I may say so, sir. 
She has big black eyes, and black hair and small, regular 
teeth.” 

“And Sir Horace had been keeping her?” 

“I think so, sir.” 

“And a fortnight before Sir Horace left for Scotland 
there was a quarrel — Sir Horace cast her off?” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


123 


“That is what it looked like to me,” said the butler. 

“What was the cause of the quarrel ?” 

“That I don’t know, sir.” 

“Didn’t Birchill tell you?” 

“Well, not in so many words. But I gathered from 
things he dropped that Sir Horace had found out that 
he was a friend of Miss Fanning’s and didn’t like it.” 

“Naturally,” said the philosophic police official. “Is 
Birchill still at this flat and is the girl still there?” 

“The last I heard of them they were, sir. Of course 
they had been talking of moving after Sir Horace stopped 
the allowance.” 

“Well, Hill, I’ll investigate this story of yours,” said 
the inspector, as he rose to his feet and placed his 
note-book in his pocket. “If it is true — if you have given 
us all the assistance in your power and have kept nothing 
back, I’ll do my best for you. Of course you realise 
that you are in a very serious position. I don’t want to 
arrest you unless I have to, but I must detain you while 
I investigate what you have told us. You will come up 
with us to the Camden Town Station and then your state- 
ment will be talcen down fully. I’ll give you three min- 
utes in which to explain things to your wife.” 


CHAPTER XII 


“Do you think Hill's story is true?” Rolfe asked In- 
spector Chippenfield, as they left the Camden Town 
Police Station and turned in the direction of the Tube 
station. 

“We’ll soon find out,” replied the inspector. “Of 
course, there is something in it, but there is no doubt 
Hill will not stick at a lie to save his own skin. But we 
are more likely to get at the truth by threatening to arrest 
him than by arresting him. If he were arrested he would 
probably shut up and say no more.” 

“And are you going to arrest Birchill ?” 

“Yes.” 

“For the murder?” asked Rolfe. 

“No; for burglary. It would be a mistake to charge 
him with murder until we get more evidence. The papers 
would jeer at us if we charged him with murder and 
then dropped the charge.” 

“Do you think Birchill will squeak?” 

“On Hill?” said the inspector. “When he knows that 
Hill has been trying to fit him for the murder he’ll 
try and do as much for Hill. And between them we’ll 
come at the truth. We are on the right track at last, my 
boy. And, thank God, we have beaten our friend 
Crewe.” 

Inspector Chippenfield’s satisfaction in his impending 
triumph over Crewe was increased by a chance meet- 
ing with the detective. As the two police officials came 
out of Leicester Square Station on their way to Scotland 
Yard to obtain a warrant for Birchell’s arrest, they saw 
Crewe in a taxi-cab. Crewe also saw them, and telling 
the driver to pull up leaned out of the window and looked 
back at the two detectives. When they came up with the 
124 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


125 

taxi-cab they saw that Crewe had on a light overcoat and 
that there was a suit-case beside the driver. Crewe was 
going on a journey of some kind. 

“ Any thing fresh about the Riversbrook case?” he 
asked. 

“No; nothing fresh,” replied Inspector Chippenfield, 
looking Crewe straight in the face. 

“You are a long time in making an arrest,” said Crewe, 
in a bantering tone. 

“We want to arrest the right man,” was the reply. 
“There's nothing like getting the right man to start with ; 
it saves such a lot of time and trouble. Where are you 
off to?” 

“I’m taking a run down to Scotland.” 

The inspector glanced at Crewe rather enviously. 

“You are fortunate in being able to enjoy yourself just 
now,” he said meaningly. 

“I won't drop work altogether,” remarked Crewe. “I’ll 
make a few inquiries there.” 

“About the Riversbrook affair ?” 

“Yes.” 

With the murderer practically arrested, Inspector 
Chippenfield permitted himself the luxury of smiling at 
the way in which Crewe was following up a false scent. 

“I thought the murder was committed in London — not 
in Scotland,” he said. 

“Wrong, Chippenfield,” said Crewe, with a smile. “Sir 
Horace was murdered in Scotland and his body was 
brought up to London by train and placed in his own 
house in order to mislead the police. Good-bye.” 

As the taxi-cab drove off, Inspector Chippenfield turned 
to his subordinate and said, 

“We’ll rub it into him when he comes back and finds 
that we have got our man under lock and key. He’s on 
some wild-goose chase. Scotland ! He might as well go 
to Siberia while’s he’s about it.” 

With a warrant in his pocket Inspector Chippenfield, 
accompanied by Rolfe, set out for Macauley Man- 


126 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


sions, Westminster. They found the Mansions to be situ- 
ated in a quiet and superior part of Westminster, not far 
from Victoria Station, and consisting of a large block of 
flats overlooking a square — a pocket-handkerchief patch 
of green which was supposed to serve as breathing-space 
for the flats which surrounded it. 

Macauley Mansions had no lift, and Number 43, the 
scene of the events of Hill’s confession, was on the top 
floor. Inspector Chippenfield and Rolfe mounted the 
stairs steadily, and finally found themselves standing 
on a neat cocoanut door-mat outside the door of No. 43. 
The door was closed. 

“Well, well,” said the inspector, as he paused, pant- 
ing, on the door-mat and rang the bell. “Snug quar- 
ters these — very snug. Strange that these sort of women 
never know enough to run straight when they are well 
off.” 

The door opened, and a young woman confronted them. 
She was hardly more than a girl, pretty and refined- 
looking, with large dark eyes, a pathetic drooping mouth, 
and a wistful expression. She wore a well-made indoor 
dress of soft satin, without ornaments, and her luxuri- 
ant dark hair was simply and becomingly coiled at 
the back of her head. She held a book in her left hand, 
with one finger between the leaves, as though the sum- 
mons to the door had interrupted her reading, and glanced 
inquiringly at the visitors, waiting for them to intimate 
their business. She was so different from the type of girl 
they had expected to see that Inspector Chippenfield 
had some difficulty in announcing it. 

“Are you Miss Fanning?” he asked. 

“Yes,” she replied. 

“Then you are the young woman we wish to see, and, 
with your permission, we’ll come inside,” said Inspector 
Chippenfield, recovering from his first surprise and speak- 
ing briskly. 

They followed the girl into the hall, and into a room 
off the hall to which she led the way. A small 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


127 


Pomeranian dog which lay on an easy chair, sprang up 
barking shrilly at their entrance, but at the command of 
the girl it settled down on its silk cushion again. The 
apartment was a small sitting-room, daintily furnished 
in excellent feminine taste. Both police officers took in 
the contents of the room with the glance of trained 
observers, and both noticed that, prominent among the 
ornaments on the mantelpiece, stood a photograph of the 
late Sir Horace Fewbanks in a handsome silver frame. 

The photograph made it easy for Inspector Chippen- 
field to enter upon the object of the visit of himself 
and his subordinate to the flat. 

“I see you have a photograph of Sir Horace Fewbanks 
there,” he said, in what he intended to be an easy con- 
versational tone, waving his hand towards the mantelpiece. 

The wistful expression of the girl’s face deepened as 
she followed his glance. 

“Yes,” she said simply. “It is so terrible about him.” 

“Was he a — a relative of yours?” asked the inspector. 

She had come to the conclusion they were police officers 
and that they were aware of the position she occupied. 

“He was very kind to me,” she replied. 

“When did you see him last? Plow long before he — 
before he died?” 

“Are you detectives ?” she asked. 

“From Scotland Yard,” replied Inspector Chippenfield 
with a bow. 

“Why have you come here? Do you think that I — 
that I know anything about the murder ?” 

'‘Not in the least.” The inspector’s tone was reassur- 
ing. “We merely want information about Sir Horace’s 
movements prior to his departure for Scotland. When 
did you see him last?” 

“I don’t remember,” she said, after a pause. 

“You must try,” said the inspector, in a tone which 
contained a suggestion of command. 

“Oh, a few days before he went away.” 


128 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


“A few days,” repeated the inspector. “And you 
parted on good terms?” 

“Yes, on very good terms.” She met his glance 
frankly. 

Inspector Chippenfield was silent for a moment. 
Then, fixing his fiercest stare on the girl, he remarked 
abruptly : 

“Where’s Birchill?” 

“Birchill ?” She endeavoured to appear surprised, but 
her sudden pallor betrayed her inward anxiety at the 
question. “I — I don’t know who you mean.” 

“I mean the man you’ve been keeping with Sir Horace 
Fewbanks’s money,” said the inspector brutally. 

“I’ve been keeping nobody with Sir Horace Fewbanks’s 
money,” protested the girl feebly. “It’s cruel of you to 
insult me.” 

“That’ll about do to go on with,” said Inspector 
Chippenfield, with a sudden change of tone, rising to his 
feet as he spoke. “Rolfe, keep an eye on her while I 
search the flat.” 

Rolfe crossed over from where he had been sitting and 
stood beside the girl. She glanced up at him wildly, with 
terror dawning in the depths of her dark eyes. 

“What do you mean? How dare you?” she cried, in 
an effort to be indignant. 

“Now, don’t try your tragedy airs on us,” said the 
inspector. “We’ve no time for them. If you won’t 
tell the truth you had better say nothing at all.” He 
plunged his hand into a jardiniere and withdrew a briar- 
wood pipe. “This looks to me like Birchill’s property. 
Keep that dog back, Rolfe.” 

The little dog had sprung off his cushion and was 
eagerly following the inspector out of the room. 
Rolfe caught up the animal in his arms, and returned to 
where the girl was sitting. Her face was white and 
strained, and her big dark eyes followed Inspector 
Chippenfield, but she did not speak. The inspector 
tramped noisily into the little hall, leaving the door of the 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


129 

room wide open. Rolfe and the girl saw him fling open 
the door of another room — a bedroom — and stride into it. 
He came out again shortly, and went down the hall to 
the rear of the flat. A few minutes later he came back 
to the room where he had left Rolfe and the girl. His 
knees were dusty, and some feathers were adhering to 
his jacket, as though he had been plunging in odd nooks 
and corners, and beneath beds. He was hot, flurried, and 
out of temper. 

“The bird’s flown 1” were his first words, addressed to 
Rolfe. “I’ve hunted high and low, but I cannot find a 
sign of him. It beats me how he’s managed it. He 
couldn’t have gone out the front way without my seeing 
him go past the door, and the back windows are four 
stories high from the ground.” 

“Perhaps he wasn’t here when we came in,” suggested 
Rolfe. 

“Oh, yes, he was. Why, he’d been smoking that pipe 
in this very room. She was clever enough to open the 
window to let out the tobacco smoke before she let us 
in, but she didn’t hide the pipe properly, for I saw the 
smoke from it coming out of the jardiniere , and when I 
put my hand on the bowl it was hot. Feel it now.” 

Rolfe placed his hand on the pipe, which Inspector 
Chippenfield had deposited on the table. The bowl was 
still warm, indicating that the pipe had recently been 
alight. 

“He must have been smoking the pipe when we knocked 
at the door, and dashed away to hide before she let 
us in,” grumbled the inspector. “But the question is — 
where can he have got to ? I’ve hunted everywhere, and 
there’s no way out except by the front door, so far as 
I can see. Go and have a look yourself, Rolfe, and see 
if you can find a trace of him. I’ll watch the girl.” 

Rolfe put down the little dog he had been holding, and 
went out into the hall. The dog accompanied him, frisk- 
ing about him in friendly fashion. Rolfe first exam- 
ined the bedroom that he had seen Inspector Chippen- 


130 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


field enter. It was a small room, containing a double 
bed. It was prettily furnished in white, with white cur- 
tains, and toilet-table articles in ivory to match. A glance 
round the room convinced Rolfe that it was impossible 
for a man to secrete himself in it. The door of the ward- 
robe had been flung open by the inspector, and the 
dresses and other articles of feminine apparel it con- 
tained flung out on the floor. There was no other hiding- 
place possible, except beneath the bed, and the ruthless 
hand of the inspector had tom off the white muslin 
bed hangings, revealing emptiness underneath. Rolfe 
went out into the hall again, and entered the room next 
the bedroom. This apartment was apparently used as a 
dining-room, for it contained a large table, a few chairs, 
a small sideboard, a spirit-stand, a case of books and 
ornaments, and two small oak presses. Plainly, there was 
no place in it where a man could hide himself. The next 
room was the bathroom, which was also empty. Opposite 
the bathroom was a small bedroom, very barely fur- 
nished, offering no possibility of concealment. Then the 
passage opened into a large roomy kitchen, the full width 
of the rooms on both sides of the hall, and the kitchen 
completed the flat. 

Rolfe glanced keenly around the kitchen. There were 
no cooking appliances visible, or pots or pans, but there 
was much lumber and odds and ends, as though the place 
were used as a store-room. Presumably Miss Fanning 
obtained her meals from the restaurant on the ground 
floor of the mansions and had no use for a kitchen. The 
room was dirty and dusty and crowded with all kinds of 
rubbish. But the miscellaneous rubbish stored in the room 
offered no hiding-place for a man. Rolfe nevertheless 
made a conscientious search, shifting the lumber about 
and ferreting into dark corners, without result. Finally 
he crossed the room to look out of the window, which 
had been left open, no doubt by Inspector Chippenfield. 

The mansions in which the flat was situated formed 
part of a large building, with back windows overlooking 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


131 

a small piece of ground. The flat was on the fourth story. 
Rolfe looked around the neighbouring roofs and down 
onto the ground fifty feet below, but could see nothing. 

He withdrew his head and was turning to leave the 
room when his attention was attracted by the peculiar 
behaviour of the dog, which had followed him through- 
out on his search. The little animal, after sniffing about 
the floor, ran to the open window and started whining 
and jumping up at it. Rolfe quickly returned to the 
window and looked out. 

“Why, of course!” he muttered. “How could I have 
overlooked it ? Inspector,” he called aloud, “come here !” 

Inspector Chippenfield appeared in the kitchen in 
a state of some excitement at the summons. He carried 
the key of the front room in his hand, having taken the 
precaution to lock Miss Fanning in before he responded 
to the call of his colleague. 

“What is it, Rolfe?” he asked eagerly. 

“This dog has tracked him to the window, so he’s evi- 
dently escaped that way,” explained Rolfe briefly. “Pie’s 
climbed along the window-ledge.” 

Inspector Chippenfield approached the window and 
looked out. A broad window-ledge immediately be- 
neath the window ran the whole length of the building 
beneath the windows on the fourth floor, and, so far as 
could be seen, continued round the side of the house. It 
was a dizzy, but not a difficult feat for a man of cool head 
to walk along the ledge to the corner of the house. 

“I wonder where that infernal ledge goes to?” said 
Inspector Chippenfield, vainly twisting his neck and 
protruding his body through the window to a dangerous 
extent to see round the corner of the building. “I dare- 
say it leads to the water-pipe, and the scoundrel, knowing 
that, has been able to get round, shin down, and get clear 
away.” 

“I’ll soon find out,” said Rolfe. “I’ll walk along to the 
corner and see.” 

“Do you think you can do it, Rolfe?” asked the in- 


132 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


spector nervously. “If you fell ” he glanced down 

to the ground far below with a shudder. 

“Nonsense !” laughed Rolfe. “I won’t fall. Why, 
the ledge is a foot broad, and I’ve got a steady head. He 
may not have got very far, after all, and I may be able to 
see him from the corner.” 

He got out of the window as he spoke, and started to 
walk carefully along the ledge towards the corner of the 
building. He reached it safely, peered round, screwed 
himself round sharply, and came back to the open win- 
dow almost at a run. 

“You’re right !” he gasped, as he sprang through. “I 
saw him. He is climbing down the spouting, using the 
chimney brickwork as a brace for his feet. If we get 
downstairs we may catch him.” 

He was out of the kitchen in an instant, up the passage, 
and racing down three steps at a time before the in- 
spector had recovered from his surprise. Then he fol- 
lowed as quickly as he could, but Rolfe had a long start of 
him. When Inspector Chippenfield reached the ground 
floor Rolfe was nowhere in sight. The inspector looked 
up and down the street, wondering what had become of 
him. 

At that instant a tall young man, bareheaded and coat- 
less, came running out of an alley-way, pursued by Rolfe. 

“Stop him!” cried Rolfe, to his superior officer. 

Inspector Chippenfield stepped quickly out into the 
street in front of the fugitive. The young man can- 
noned into the burly officer before he could stop himself, 
and the inspector clutched him fast. He attempted 
to wrench himself free, but Rolfe had rushed to his su- 
perior’s assistance, and drew the baton with which he 
had provided himself when he set out from Scotland 
Yard. 

“You needn’t bother about using that thing,” said the 
young man contemptuously. “I’m not a fool; I realise 
you’ve got me.” 

“We’ll not give you another chance.” Inspector Chip- 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


133 

penfield dexterously snapped a pair of handcuffs on the 
young man’s wrists. 

“What are these for ?” said the captive, regarding them 
sullenly. 

“You’ll know soon enough when we get you up- 
stairs,” replied the inspector. “Now then, up you go.” 

They reascended the stairs in silence, Inspector 
Chippenfield and Rolfe walking on each side of their 
prisoner holding him by the arms, in case he tried to 
make another bolt. They reached the flat and found 
the front door open as they had left it. The inspector 
entered the hall and unlocked the drawing-room door. 

The girl was sitting on the chair where they had left 
her, with her head bowed down in an attitude of the 
deepest dejection. She straightened herself suddenly as 
they entered, and launched a terrified glance at the young 
man. 

“Oh, Fred!” she gasped. 

“They were too good for me, Doris,” he responded, as 
though in reply to her unspoken query. “I would have 
got away from this chap” — he indicated Rolfe with a 
nod of his head — “but I ran into the other one.” 

He stooped as he spoke to brush with his manacled 
hands some of the dirt from his clothes, which he had 
doubtless gained in his perilous climb down the side of 
the house, and then straightened himself to look lower- 
ingly at his captors. He was a tall, slender young fellow 
of about twenty-five or twenty-six, clean-shaven, with a 
fresh complexion and a rather effeminate air. He was 
well dressed in a grey lounge suit, a soft shirt, with a high 
double collar and silk necktie. He looked, as he stood 
there, more like a dandified city clerk than the desperate 
criminal suggested by Hill’s confession. 

“Come on, what’s the charge?” he demanded inso- 
lently, with a slight glance at his manacled hands. 

“Is your name Frederick Birchill?” asked Inspector 
Chippenfield. 

The young man nodded. 


134 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


“Then, Frederick Birchill, you’re charged with bur- 
glariously entering the house of Sir Horace Fewbanks, at 
Hampstead, on the night of the 18th of August.” 

“Burglary ?” said Birchill. “Anything else ?” 

“That will do for the present,” replied the inspector. 
“We may find it necessary to charge you with a more 
serious crime later.” 

“Well, all I can say is that you’ve got the wrong 
man. But that is nothing new for you chaps,” he added 
with a sneer. 

“Surely you are not going to charge him with the 
murder?” said the girl imploringly. 

The inspector’s reply was merely to warn the prisoner 
that anything he said might be used in evidence against 
him at his trial. 

“Pie had nothing whatever to do with it — he knows 
nothing about it,” protested the girl. “If you let him go 
I’ll tell you who murdered Sir Horace.” 

“Who murdered him?” asked the inspector. 

“Hill,” was the reply. 


CHAPTER XIII 


Doris Fanning got off a H'olborn tram at King’s 
Cross, and with a hasty glance round her as if to make 
sure she was not followed, walked at a rapid pace across 
the street in the direction of Caledonian Road. She 
walked up that busy thoroughfare at the same quick 
gait for some minutes, then turned into a narrow street 
and, with another suspicious look around her, stopped at 
the doorway of a small shop a short distance down. 

The shop sold those nondescript goods which seem to 
afford a living to a not inconsiderable class of London’s 
small shopkeepers. The windows and the shelves were 
full of dusty old books and magazines, trumpery curios 
and cheap china, second-hand furniture and a collection 
of miscellaneous odds and ends. A thick dust lay over 
the whole collection, and the shop and its contents pre- 
sented a deserted and dirty appearance. Moreover, the 
door was closed as though customers were not expected. 
The girl tried the door and found it locked — a fact which 
seemed to indicate that customers were not even desired. 
After another hasty look up and down the street she 
tapped sharply on the door in a peculiar way. 

The door was opened after the lapse of a few minutes 
by a short thickset man of over fifty, whose heavy 
face displayed none of the suavity and desire to please 
which is part of the stock-in-trade of the small shop- 
keeper of London. A look of annoyance crossed his 
face at the sight of the girl, and his first remark to her 
was one which no well-regulated shopkeeper would have 
addressed to a prospective customer. 

“You!” he exclaimed. “What in God’s name has 
brought you here? I told you on no account to come 
135 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


136 

to the shop. How do you know somebody hasn’t fol- 
lowed you?” 

“I could not help it, Kincher,” the girl responded pite- 
ously. “I’m distracted about Fred, and I had to come 
over to ask your advice.” 

‘‘You women are all fools,” the man retorted. “You 
might have known that I would read all about the case 
in the papers, and that Fd let you hear from me.” 

“Yes, Kincher,” she replied humbly, “but they let me 
see Fred for a few minutes yesterday at the police court 
and he told me to come over and see you. Oh, if you 
only knew what I’ve suffered since he was arrested. 
Yesterday he was committed for trial. I haven’t closed 
my eyes for over a week.” 

“So you attended the police-court proceedings?” said 
Kemp. And when the girl nodded her head he went on, 
“The more fool you. I suppose it would be too much 
to expect a woman to keep away even though she knew 
she could do no good.” 

“I knew that, Kincher, but I simply had to go. I 
should have died if I had stayed in that dreadful flat 
alone. I tried to, but I couldn’t. I got so nervous that 
I had to put my handkerchief into my mouth to prevent 
myself from screaming aloud.” 

“Well, since you are here you had better come inside 
instead of standing there and giving yourself and me 
away to every passing policeman.” 

He led the way inside, and the girl followed him to a 
dirty, cheerless room behind the shop which was fur- 
nished with a sofa-bedstead, a table, and a chair. It was 
evident that Kemp lived alone and attended to his own 
wants. The remains of an unappetising meal were on a 
corner of the table, and a kettle and a teapot stood by 
the fireplace in which a fire had recently been made with 
a few sticks for the purpose of boiling a kettle. Bed- 
clothes were heaped on the sofa-bedstead in a disordered 
state, and in the midst of them nestled a large tortoise- 
shell cat. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


137 


“Sit down,” said Kemp. There was an old chair near 
the fireplace and he pushed it towards her with his foot. 
“What’s brought you over here?” 

The girl sank into the chair and began to cry. 

“I can’t help it, Kincher,” she said. “I don’t know what 
to say or do. Fancy Fred being charged with murder! 
Oh, it’s too dreadful to think about. And yet I can think 
of nothing else.” 

“Crying your eyes out won’t help matters much,” 
replied the unsympathetic Kemp. 

The girl did not reply, but rocked herself backwards 
and forwards on the chair. She sobbed so violently that 
she appeared to be threatened with an attack of hysteria. 
Kemp watched her silently. The cat on the sofa-bed- 
stead, as if awakened by the noise, got up, yawned, looked 
inquiringly round, and then with a measured leap sprang 
into the girl’s lap. She was startled by his act and then 
she smiled through her sobs as she stroked the qnimal’s 
coat. 

“Poor old Peter!” she exclaimed. “He wants to con- 
sole me ! don’t you, Peter ? I say, Kincher, I wish you’d 
give me Peter; you don’t want him. Oh, look at the 
dear !” The cat had perched himself on one of her knees 
to beg, and he sawed the air appealingly with his fore- 
paws. “I must give him a tit-bit for that.” She eyed 
the remains of the meal on the table disdainfully. “No, 
Peter, there is nothing fit for you to eat — positively 
nothing. Why, he understands me like a human being,” 
she continued in amazement as the huge cat dropped on 
all fours and deliberately sprang back to the sofa-bed- 
stead. “I say, Kincher, you really want a woman in 
this place to look after you. It’s in a most shocking 
state — it’s like a pigsty.” 

Kemp made no reply but continued to watch her. 
Her tears had vanished and she sat forward with her 
dark eyes sparkling, one hand supporting her pretty 
face as she glanced round the room. 

“Have you a cigarette ?” she asked suddenly. 


138 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


Kemp went into the shop and came back with a packet 
of cheap cigarettes. The girl pushed them away petu- 
lantly. 

“I don't like that brand,” she said ; “haven’t you any- 
thing better?” 

The man shook his head. 

“No? Then here goes — I must have a smoke of some 
sort.” She stuck one of the cheap cigarettes daintily into 
her mouth. “A match, Kincher ! Why, the box is filthy ! 
You must have a woman in to look after you, even if I 
have to find you one myself.” 

“I don’t want any woman in the place,” retorted 
Kemp. “There is no peace for a man when a woman 
is about. But let us have no more of this idle chatter. 
What’s brought you over here? I suppose it’s about 
Fred.” 

“Poor Fred!” The girl looked downcast for a mo- 
ment, then she tossed her head, puffed out some smoke, 
and exclaimed energetically, “But he’s not guilty, Kin- 
cher, and we’ll get him off, won’t we?” 

“Not merely by saying so,” replied Kemp. “But 
you’d better tell me how it came about that he was ar- 
rested for the murder. The police gave away nothing 
at the police court. Bill Dobbs was down there and he 
told me they let out nothing, except that their principal 
witness against Fred is that fellow Hill. I always knew 
he’d squeak. I told Fred to have nothing to do with the 
job.” 

The girl’s eyes flashed viciously. She tossed the cigar- 
ette into the fire-place and straightened herself. 

“That’s the low, dirty scoundrel who committed the 
murder,” she exclaimed. “He ought to be in the dock — 
not Fred.” 

“Was Fred up there that night?” asked Kemp. 

“Up where?” 

“At Riversbrook, or whatever they call it.” 

“Yes.” 

“He told me he didn’t go.” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


139 


“It’s because he was up there that the police have 
arrested him,” said the girl. “Hill gave him away. 
Oh, he’s a double-dyed villain, is Hill. And so quiet and 
respectable looking with it all ! He used to let me in when 
I went to Riversbrook, and let me out again, and pocket 
the half-crowns I gave him. And I like a fool never 
suspected him once, or thought that he knew anything 
about Fred coming to the flat. He didn’t let it out till 
the night Sir Horace quarrelled with me. Sir Horace 
found out about — about Fred — and when I went up to 
see him as usual, he told me that he had finished with me 
and he called Hill up to show me out. ‘Show this young 
lady out,’ he said in that cold haughty voice of his, and 
the wily old villain Hill just bowed and held the door 
open. He followed me down stairs and let me out at 
the side door. There he said, ‘I’ll escort you to the front 
gate, if you will permit me, miss. I usually lock the 
gate about this time/ I thought nothing of this because 
he had come with me to the front gate before. He fol- 
lowed me down the garden path through the plantation 
till we reached the front gate. He opened the gate for 
me and I said ‘Good night, Hill/ but instead of his reply- 
ing ‘Good night, Miss Fanning,’ as he usually did, he 
hissed out like a serpent, ‘You tell Birchill I want to see 
him to-morrow, and I’ll come to the flat about 9 o’clock. 
Tell him an old friend named Field wants to see him. 
Don’t forget the name — Field !’ Then he locked the gate 
and was gone before I could speak a word. 

“I gave Fred his message next morning — I wish to 
God that I hadn’t,” she continued. “I asked Fred not to 
keep the appointment, but he insisted on doing so. He 
said that he and Field had been good friends in the gaol, 
and that Field had told him that if he ever got on to 
anything he would let him know. He seemed quite 
pleased at the idea of meeting Field again. I told him to 
beware that Field wasn’t laying a trap for him, but he 
wouldn’t listen to me. 

“Sure enough, Field — or Hill as he calls himself now 


140 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


— did come over that evening and I let him in myself. 
I took him into the sitting-room where Fred was, 
and I sat down in a corner of the room pretending to read 
a book so that I could hear what our visitor had to say. 
But the cunning old devil whispered something to Fred, 
and Fred came over tome and asked if I’d mind leaving 
them alone for half an hour. I didn’t mind so much be- 
cause I knew I could get it all out of Fred after Hill 
had gone. 

“He remained shut up with Fred for nearly two hours 
and then I heard Fred letting him out of the front door. 
Fred came in to me, and I soon got the strength of it all 
from him. What do you think Hill had come for? To get 
Fred to burgle Sir Horace’s house! And Fred had 
agreed to do it. I cried and I stormed and went into 
hysterics, but he wouldn’t budge — you know how ob- 
stinate he can be when he likes. He said that Hill had 
told him there was a good haul to be picked up. Sir 
Horace was going to Scotland for the shooting, and the 
servants were to be sent to his country house, so the 
coast would be clear. Hill was to leave everything right 
at Riversbrook on the afternoon of the 18th of August, 
and he was to come across to the flat and let Fred know. 

“Hill came, as he promised, but as soon as he came 
in I could see that something had happened. The first 
words he said were that Sir Horace had returned unex- 
pectedly from Scotland. I was glad to hear it, for I 
thought that meant that there would be no burglary. I 
said as much to Fred, and he would have agreed with me, 
but that devil Hill was too full of cunning. ‘Of course, 
if you’re frightened, we’d better call it off,’ he said. 
Fred had been drinking during the day, and you know 
what he’s like when he’s had a little too much. T was 
never frightened of any job yet,’ he said, ‘and I’d do this 
job to-night if the house was full of rozzers*’ Hill pre- 
tended that he wasn’t particular whether the thing came 
off or not that night, but all the while he kept egging Fred 
on to do it. Oh, I can see now what his game was. In 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


141 

spite of all I could do or say, it was arranged that Fred 
should go over, and see if it was quite safe to carry out 
the job. Hill said he thought Sir Horace was going out 
that night, and wouldn’t be home until the early morn- 
ing. About 9 o’clock Fred went off, leaving Hill and me 
alone in the flat together. How I wish now that I had 
killed him when I had such a good chance. 

“We sat there scarcely speaking, and heard the clock 
strike the hours. After midnight I began to get restless, 
for I thought something must have happened to Fred. 
Hill said in a low voice: Tt’s time Fred was back.’ The 
words were scarcely out of his mouth when I heard 
Fred’s step outside, and I ran to let him in. He came 
in as white as a sheet. 'Fred/ I cried as soon as I saw 
him, ‘there’s some blood on your face.’ 

“He didn’t answer a word until he had taken a big drink 
of whisky out of the decanter. Then he said in a whisper : 
‘Sir Horace Fewbanks has been murdered !’ ‘Murdered !’ 
cried Hill, leaping up from his chair — he can act well, I 
can tell you — ‘My God, Fred, you don’t mean it!’ ‘He’s 
dead, I tell you,’ replied Fred fiercely. I thought, and at 
the time I suppose Hill thought, that Fred had shot him 
either accidentally or in order to escape capture. He 
seemed to guess what we were thinking, for he swore that 
he had had nothing to do with it — Sir Horace was dead 
on the floor when he got there. 

“He told us all that had happened. When he got to 
Riversbrook he found lights burning on the ground floor. 
He jumped over the fence at the side and hid in the 
garden. He was there only a few minutes when he saw 
the lights go out. Then the front door was slammed and 
a woman walked down the garden path to the gate.” 

“A woman !” exclaimed Kemp. 

“Yes, a woman. Why not? She had been to see Sir 
Horace. One of his Society mistresses. I’ll bet it was on 
her account that he came back from Scotland.” 

“What time was this?” he asked with interest. 

“About half-past ten,” replied the girl. 


142 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


“And this woman — this lady — turned out the lights and 
closed the front door?” 

“So Fred says. Of course he thought Sir Horace had 
done it, but he found out later that Sir Horace was 
dead.” 

“I can’t understand it,” said Kemp. “What was she 
doing there? If she found the man dead, why didn’t she 
inform the police? No, wait a minute! She’d be afraid 
to do that if she was a Society woman.” 

“It might be her who killed him,” said the girl. 

“Does Fred think that?” asked Kemp, looking at her 
closely. 

“Fred doesn’t know what to think,” she replied. “But 
it must have been this woman or Hill who killed him. I 
feel sure myself that it was Hill.” 

“This woman puzzles me,” said Kemp thoughtfully. 
“She must have been a cool hand if she went round turn- 
ing out the lights after finding his dead body. About 
half-past ten, you said?” 

“That is as near as Fred can make it.” 

“Go on with your story,” he said. “I’m interested in 
this. You were saying that Fred saw the lights go out, 
and then this woman came out of the house and walked 
away.” 

“Well, Fred got into the house through one of the 
windows at the side — the one Hill had told him to try,” 
continued the girl. “But first of all he waited about half 
an hour in the garden, so as to give Sir Horace time to 
go to sleep. He was able to find his way about the house 
as Hill had given him a plan. He felt his way upstairs 
and finding a door open he went into the room and 
flashed his electric torch. By its light he saw Sir Horace 
Fewbanks lying huddled up in a corner with a big pool 
of blood beside him on the floor. He felt him to see if 
he was dead. The body was quite warm, but it was 
limp. Sir Horace was dead. Fred says he lost his nerve 
and ran for it as hard as he could. He rushed down 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


143 

stairs and out of the house and got back to the flat as 
fast as he could. 

“The three of us sat there shaking with fear and won- 
dering what to do. Hill was the first to recover himself. 
In his cunning plausible way, he pointed out that it was 
altogether unlikely that suspicion would fall on Fred or 
him. All we had to do was to keep quiet and say noth- 
ing ; then we’d have no awkward questions put to us. It 
was his suggestion that we should send an anonymous 
letter to Scotland Yard telling them Sir Horace had been 
murdered. That would be much better, he said, than 
leaving the body there until he went over and found it 
when he had to go over to Riversbrook to take a look 
round, in accordance with the instructions that had been 
given him when Sir Horace went to Scotland. Knowing 
what he did, he was afraid that if he was allowed to dis- 
cover the body and inform the police, he would let some- 
thing slip when the police came at him with their hun- 
dreds of questions. We printed the letter to Scotland 
Yard, each one doing a letter at a time. Hill took it with 
him, saying he would post it on his way home. 

“When he left, Fred and I sat there thinking. Sud- 
denly it came to me as clear as daylight that Hill had 
committed the murder, and had fixed up things so as to 
throw suspicion on Fred. He must have known Sir 
Horace was coming back from Scotland that night, and he 
had laid in wait for him and shot him. Then he had 
come over to my flat in order to persuade Fred to carry 
out the burglary, and direct suspicion to Fred for the 
murder, if the police worried him. I told Fred what 
I thought, but he only laughed at me and said I was 
talking nonsense. But I was right, for a week afterwards 
the police came and arrested Fred at the flat.” 

“Flow did they get him ?” asked Kemp. 

“I saw them coining along the street from the window, 
and I pointed them out to Fred. He tried to get away 
through the kitchen window along the ledge and down 
the spouting. He almost got away, but one of the de- 


144 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


tectives saw him before he reached the ground, and they 
dashed down stairs and got him in the street. Next day 
I saw in the papers that Hill had made an important 
statement to the police, and this had led to Fred’s arrest. 
Hill is the murderer, Kincher. The cunning, wicked, 
treacherous villain told the police about Fred being up 
there. He wants to see Fred hang in order to save his 
own neck.” The girl’s voice rose to a shriek, and she 
sprang to her feet with blazing eyes. “Kincher,” she 
cried, “you’ve got to help me put the rope round this 
wretch’s neck. Do you hear me?” 

Kemp’s impassivity was in marked contrast to the girl’s 
hysterical excitement. 

“What do you want me to do ?” he asked. 

“Fred wants you to get up an alibi for him. He sent 
me over to ask you to arrange it without delay. He 
wants you and two or three others to swear that he was 
over here on the night of the murder. That will be suf- 
ficient to get him off.” 

“Not me,” said Kemp, shaking his head decidedly. “I 
won’t do it; it’s too risky. The police have too many 
things against me for my word to be any good as a wit- 
ness. Fd only be landing myself in trouble for perjury 
instead of helping Fred out of trouble. He ought to 
have got an alibi ready before he was arrested. I told 
him at the inquest that he ought to look after it, and he 
swore he’d not been up there on the night of the murder. 
It is too late to do anything in the alibi line now. I 
don’t know anybody I could get to come forward and 
swear Fred was in their company that night — there is a 
difference between fixing up a tale for the police before a 
man’s arrested, and going into the witness box and com- 
mitting perjury on oath.” 

He spoke in such an uncompromising tone that the 
girl saw it was useless to pursue the matter further. 

“Suppose I went to the police and told them that Hill is 
the murderer?” she suggested. 

Kemp shook his head slowly. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


145 


“There is only your word for it that Hill killed him/’ he 
said. “It doesn’t look to me as if he did, when he went 
over to your flat and told Fred that Sir Horace had come 
back from Scotland. If he had killed him he would have 
let Fred go over without saying a word about it.” 

“That was part of his cunning,” said the girl. “If 
he had said nothing about Sir Horace’s return, Fred 
would have suspected him when he found the dead body. 
I’m as certain that Hill committed the murder as if I had 
seen him do it with my own eyes.” 

Kemp shrugged his shoulders as though realising the 
uselessness of attempting to combat such a feminine form 
of reasoning. 

“Didn’t Fred say that the body was warm when he 
touched it ?” he asked. 

She meditated a moment over this evidence of Hill’s 
innocence. 

“Well, if Hill didn’t kill him, the woman Fred saw 
leaving the house must have done so,” she declared. 

“There is something in that,” said Kemp. “Look here, 
we’ve got to get Fred a good lawyer to defend him, 
and we must be guided by his advice as to what is the 
best thing to do. He knows more about what will go 
down with a jury than you do.” 

“I paid a solicitor to defend him at the police court,” 
said the girl, “but the money I gave him was thrown 
away. He said nothing and did nothing.” 

“That shows he is a man who knows his business,” 
replied Kemp. “What’s the good of talking to police 
court beaks in a case that is bound to go to trial? It’s 
a waste of breath. The thing is to see that Fred is prop- 
erly defended when the case comes on at the Old Bailey. 
We want somebody who can manage the jury. I should 
say Holymead is the man if you can get him. I don’t know 
as he’d be likely to take up the case, for he don’t go in 
much for criminal courts — and yet it seems to me that he 
might. You ought to try to get him, at least. He used 
to be a friend of your friend Sir Horace, so if he took 


146 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


up the case it would look as if he believed Fred had 
nothing to do with the murder. It would be bound to 
make a good impression on the jury.” 

‘Wouldn’t he be very expensive?” asked the girl. 

“Not so expensive as getting hanged,” said Kemp 
grimly. “You take my advice and have him if you can 
get him. Never mind what he costs, if you can raise 
the money. You’ve got some money saved up, haven’t 
you ?” 

“Yes, I’ve nearly £ 200 . Sir Horace put £100 in the 
Savings Bank for me on my last birthday. And the 
furniture at the flat is mine. I’d sell that and everything 
I’ve got, for Fred’s sake.” 

“That is the way to talk,” said Kemp. “You go to 
this solicitor you had at the police court, and tell him 
you want Holymead to defend Fred. Tell him he must 
brief Holymead — have nobody else but Holymead. Tell 
him that Holymead was a friend of Sir Horace Few- 
banks’s and that if he appears for Fred the jury will 
never believe that Fred had anything to do with the mur- 
der. And I don’t think he had, though he*did lie to me 
and swear he hadn’t been up there that night,” he added 
after a moment’s reflection. 


CHAPTER XIV 


“There is one link in the chain missing,” said Rolfe, 
who was discussing with Inspector Chippenfield, in the 
latter’s room at Scotland Yard, the strength of the case 
against Birchill. 

“And what is that ?” asked his superior. 

“The piece of woman’s handkerchief that I found in 
the dead man’s hand. You remember we agreed that it 
showed there was a woman in the case.” 

“Well, what do you call this girl Fanning? Isn’t she 
in the case ? Surely, you don’t want any better explana- 
tion of the murder than a quarrel between her and Sir 
Horace over this man Birchill ?” # 

“Yes, I see that plain enough,” replied Rolfe. “There 
is ample motive for the crime, but how that piece of 
handkerchief got into the dead man’s hand is still a 
mystery to me. It would be easily explained if this girl 
was present in the room or the house when the murder 
was committed. But she wasn’t. Hill’s story is that 
she was at the flat with him.” 

“When you have had as much experience in investi- 
gating crime as I have, you won’t worry over little points 
that at first don’t seem to fit in with what we know to be 
facts,” responded the inspector in a patronising tone. “I 
noticed from the first, Rolfe, that you were inclined to 
make too much of this handkerchief business, but I said 
nothing. Of course, it was your own discovery, and I 
have found during my career that young detectives are 
always inclined to make too much of their own discov- 
eries. Perhaps I was myself, when I was young and 
inexperienced. Now, as to this handkerchief: what 
is more likely than that Birchill had it in his pocket 
when he went out to Riversbrook on that fatal night? 

147 


148 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


He was living in the flat with this girl Fanning: what 
was more natural than that he should pick up a handker- 
chief off the floor that the girl had dropped and put it 
in his pocket with the intention of giving it to her when 
she returned to the room? Instead of doing so he forgot 
all about it. When he shot Sir Horace Fewbanks he 
put his hand into his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe 
his forehead or his hands — it was a hot night, and I take 
it that a man who has killed another doesn’t feel as cool 
as a cucumber. While stooping over his victim with the 
handkerchief still in his hand, the dying man made a 
convulsive movement and caught hold of a corner of the 
handkerchief, which was torn off.” Inspector Chippen- 
field looked across at his subordinate with a smile of 
triumphant superiority. 

“Yes,” said Rolfe meditatively. “There is nothing 
wrong about that as far as I can see. But I would like 
to know for certain how it got there.” 

Inspector Chippenfield was satisfied with his subordi- 
nate’s testimony to his perspicacity. 

“That is all right, Rolfe,” he said in a tone of kindly 
banter. “But don’t make the mistake of regarding your 
idle curiosity as a virtue. After the trial, if you are still 
curious on the point, I have no doubt Birchill will tell you. 
He is sure to make a confession before he is hanged.” 

But it was more a spirit of idle curiosity than any- 
thing else that brought Rolfe to Crewe’s chambers in 
Holborn an hour later. Having secured the murderer, he 
felt curious as to what Crewe’s feelings were on his de- 
feat. It was the first occasion that he had been on a case 
which Crewe had been commissioned to investigate, and 
he was naturally pleased that Inspector Chippenfield and 
he had arrested the author of the crime while Crewe 
was all at sea. It was plain from the fact that 
the latter had thought it necessary to visit Scotland that 
he had got on a false scent. It was not Scotland, but 
Scotland Yard that Crewe should have visited, Rolfe said 
to himself with a smile. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


149 


Crewe, in pursuance of his policy of keeping on the 
best of terms with the police, gave Rolfe a very friendly 
welcome. He produced from a cupboard two glasses, a 
decanter of whisky, a siphon of soda, and a box of 
cigars. Rolfe quickly discovered that the cigars were of 
a quality that seldom came his way, and he leaned back 
in his chair and puffed with steady enjoyment. 

“Then you are determined to hang Birchill ? ,? said 
Crewe, as with a cigar in his fingers he faced his visitor 
with a smile. 

“We’ll hang him right enough,” said Rolfe. He pulled 
the cigar out of his mouth and looked at it approvingly. 
Though the talk was of hanging, he had never felt more 
thoroughly at peace with the world. 

“It will be a pity if you do,” said Crewe. 

“Why?” 

“Because he’s the wrong man.” 

“It would take a lot to make me believe that,” said 
Rolfe stoutly. “We’ve got a strong case against him — 
there is not a weak point in it. I admit that Hill is a 
tainted witness, but they’ll find it pretty hard to break 
down his story. We’ve tested it in every way and find it 
stands. Then there are the bootmarks outside the win- 
dow. Birchill’s boots fit them to the smallest fraction of 
an inch. The jemmy found in the flat fits the mark made 
in the window at Riversbrook, and we’ve got something 
more — another witness who saw him in Tanton Gardens 
about the time of the murder. If Birchill can get his 
neck out of the noose, he’s cleverer than I take him 
for.” 

Crewe did not reply directly to Rolfe’s summary of 
the case. 

“I see that they’ve briefed Holymead for the defence,” 
he said after a pause. 

“A waste of good money,” said the police officer. 
Something appealed to his sense of humour, for he broke 
out into a laugh. 

“What are you laughing at?” asked Crewe. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


150 

“I was wondering how Sir Horace feels when he sees 
the money he gave this girl Fanning being used to defend 
his murderer.” 

'‘You are a hardened scamp, Rolfe, with a very per- 
verse sense of humour,” said Crewe. 

“It was a cunning move of them to get Holymead,” 
said Rolfe. “They think it will weigh with the jury be- 
cause he was such a close friend of Sir Horace — that 
he wouldn’t have taken up the case unless he felt that 
Birchill was innocent. But you and I know better than 
that, Mr. Crewe. A lawyer will prove that black is 
white if he is paid for it. In fact, I understand that, ac- 
cording to the etiquette of the bar, they have got to do it. 
A barrister has to abide by his brief and leave his per- 
sonal feelings out of account.” 

“That’s so. Theoretically he is an officer of the Court, 
and his services are supposed to be at the call of any 
man who is in want of him and can afford to pay for 
them. Of course, a leading barrister, such as Holymead, 
often declines a brief because he has so much to do, but 
he is not supposed to decline it for personal reasons.” 

“His heart will not be in the case,” said Rolfe philo- 
sophically. 

“On the contrary, I think it will,” said Crewe. “My 
own opinion is that, if necessary, he will exert his powers 
to the utmost in order to get Birchill off, and that he 
will succeed.” 

“Not he,” said Rolfe confidently. “Our case is too 
strong.” 

“You’ve got a lot of circumstantial evidence, but a 
clever lawyer will pull it to pieces. Circumstantial evi- 
dence has hung many a man, and it will hang many more. 
But a jury will hesitate to convict on circumstantial evi- 
dence when it can be shown that the conduct of the 
prisoner is at variance with what the conduct of a guilty 
man would be. I don’t bet, but I’ll wager you a box of 
cigars to nothing that Holymead gets Birchill off,” 

“It’s a one-sided wager, but I’ll take the cigars because 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


i5i 

I could do with a box of these,” said Rolfe. “You mights 
as well give them to me now, Mr. Crewe.” 

“No, no,” said Crewe with a smile. “Put a couple in 
your pocket now, because you won’t win the box.” 

“Of course, I understand, Mr. Crewe, why you say 
Birchill is the wrong man. You feel a bit sore because 
we have beaten you. I would feel sore myself in your 
place, and I don’t deny that we got information that put 
us on Birchill’s track, and therefore it was easier for us 
to solve the mystery than it was for you.” 

“I’m not a bit sore,” said Crewe. “I can take a beat- 
ing, especially when the men who beat me are good 
sportsmen.” He bowed towards Rolfe, and that officer 
blushed as he recalled how Inspector Chippenfield and 
he had agreed to withhold information from Crewe 
and try to put him on a false scent. 

“I wish you’d tell me what you consider the weak 
points of our case against Birchill,” asked Rolfe. 

“Your case is based on Hill’s confession, and that to 
my mind is false in many details,” said Crewe. “Take, 
for instance, his account of how he came into contact with 
Birchill again. This girl Fanning, after a quarrel with 
Sir Horace, came over to Riversbrook with a message 
for Hill which was virtually a threat. Now does that 
seem probable? The girl who had been in the habit of 
visiting Sir Horace goes over to see Hill. No woman in 
the circumstances would do anything of the sort. She 
had too good an opinion of herself to take a message to 
a servant at a house from which she had been expelled 
by the owner, who had been keeping her. How would 
she have felt if she had run into Sir Horace? It is true 
that Sir Horace left for Scotland the day before, but it 
is improbable that the girl who had quarrelled with Sir 
Horace a fortnight before knew the exact date on which 
he intended to leave. And how did Hill behave when 
he got the message ? According to his story, he consented 
to go and see Birchill under threat of exposure, and he 
consented to become an accomplice in the burglary for the 


152 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


same reason. Sir Horace knew all about Hill's past, so 
why should he fear a threat of exposure?" 

“Hill explained that," interposed Rolfe. “He pointed 
out that, though Sir Horace knew his past, he couldn’t 
afford to have any scandal about it." 

“Quite so. But could Birchill afford to threaten a 
man who was under the protection of Sir Horace Few- 
banks? Would Birchill pit himself against Sir Horace? 
I think that Sir Horace, knowing the law pretty thor- 
oughly, would soon have found a way to deal with Birch- 
ill. If Hill was threatened by Birchill, his first impulse, 
knowing what a powerful protector he had in Sir Horace 
Fewbanks, would have been to go to him and seek his 
protection against this dangerous old associate of his 
convict days. According to Hill’s own story, he was 
something in the nature of a confidential servant, trusted 
to some extent with the secrets of Sir Horace’s double 
life. What more likely than such a man, threatened as 
he describes, should turn to his master who had shielded 
him and trusted him?” 

“I confess that is a point which never struck me,” 
said Rolfe thoughtfully. 

“Now, let us go on to the meeting between Hill and 
Birchill," continued Crewe. “This girl Fanning, dis- 
carded by Sir Horace, because he’d discovered she was 
playing him false with Birchill, is made the ostensible 
reason for Birchill’s wishing to commit a burglary at 
Riversbrook, because Birchill wants, as he says, to get 
even with Sir Horace Fewbanks. Is it likely that Birchill 
would confide his desire for revenge so frankly to Sir 
Horace’s confidential servant, the trusted custodian of 
his master’s valuables, who could rely on his master’s 
protection — the protection of a highly-placed man of 
whom Birchill stood admittedly in fear, and whom he 
knew, according to Hill’s story, was unassailable from his 
slander? What had Hill to fear, from the threats of a 
man like Birchill, when he was living under Sir Horace 
Fewbanks’s protection? All that Hill had to do when 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


153 


Birchill tried to induce him, by threats of exposure of 
his past, to help in a burglary at his master’s house, was 
to threaten to tell everything to Sir Horace. Birchill 
told Hill that he was frightened of Sir Horace Fewbanks, 
the judge who had sentenced him. 

“Then Birchill’s confidence in Hill is remarkable, any 
way you look at it. He sends for Hill, whom he had 
known in gaol, and whom he hadn’t seen since, to confide 
in him that it is his intention to burgle his employer’s 
house. He rashly assumes that Hill will do all that he 
wishes, and he proceeds to lay his cards on the table. But 
even supposing that Birchill was foolish enough to do this 
— to trust a chance gaol acquaintance so implicitly — there 
is a far more puzzling action on his part. Why did he 
want Hill’s assistance to burgle a practically unprotected 
house? I confess I have great difficulty in understanding 
why such an accomplished flash burglar as Birchill, one of 
the best men at the game in London at the present time, 
should want the assistance of an amateur like Hill in such 
a simple job.” 

Rolfe looked startled. 

“Hill says he wanted a plan of the house and to know 
what valuables it contained.” 

Crewe smiled. 

“And has it been your experience among criminals, 
Rolfe, that a burglar must have a plan of the place he 
intends to burgle, and that to get this plan he will give 
himself away to any man who can supply it? A plan 
has its uses, but it is indispensable only when a very 
difficult job is being undertaken, such as breaking through 
a wall or a ceiling to get at a room which contains a 
safe. This job was as simple as A B C. And besides, 
as far as I can make out, Birchill knew— the girl Fan- 
ning must have known— that Sir Horace would be going 
away some time in August and that the house would be 
empty. Did he want a plan of an empty house? He 
would be free to roam all over it when he had forced a 
window.” 


154 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


“He wanted to know what valuables were there,” said 
Rolfe. 

“And therefore took Hill into his confidence. If 
Hill had told his master — even Birchill would realise the 
risk of that — there would be no valuables to get. Next, 
we come to Sir Horace Fewbanks’s unexpected return. 
According to Hill’s story, he made some tentative efforts 
to commence a confession as soon as he saw his em- 
ployer, but Sir Horace was upset about something and 
was too impatient to listen to a word. Is such a story 
reasonable or likely? Hill says that Sir Horace had 
always treated him well; and according to his earlier 
statement, when he permitted himself to be terrorised 
into agreeing to this burglary, he told himself that chance 
would throw in his way some opportunity of informing 
his master. And he told you that Birchill, mistrusting his 
unwilling accomplice, hurried on the date of the burglary 
so as to give him no such opportunity. Well, chance 
throws in Hill’s way the very opportunity he has been 
seeking, but he is too frightened to use it because Sir 
Horace happens to return in an angry or impatient 
mood. 

“Let us take Birchill’s attitude when Hill tells him 
that Sir Horace has unexpectedly returned from Scot- 
land. Birchill is suspicious that Hill has played him 
false, and naturally so, but Hill, instead of letting him 
think so, and thus preventing the burglary from tak- 
ing place, does all he can to reassure him, while 
at the same time begging him to postpone the burglary. 
That was hardly the best way to go about it. Let us 
charitably assume that Hill was too frightened to let 
Birchill remain under the impression that he’d played 
him false, and let us look at Birchill’s attitude. It is in- 
conceivable that Birchill should have permitted himself to 
be reassured, when right through the negotiations be- 
tween himself and Hill he showed the most marked dis- 
trust of the latter. Yet, according to Hill, he suddenly 
abandons this attitude for one of trusting credulity, 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


155 


meekly accepting the assurance of the man he distrusts 
that Sir Horace Fewbanks’s unexpected return from 
Scotland on the very night the burglary is to be committed 
is not a trap to catch him, but a coincidence. Then, after 
drinking himself nearly blind, he sets forth with a re- 
volver to commit a burglary on the house of the judge 
who tried him, on Hill’s bare word that everything is 
all right. Guileless, trusting, simple-minded Birchill l 

“Hill is left locked up in the flat with the girl; for 
Birchill, who has just trusted him implicitly in a far 
more important matter affecting his own liberty, has a 
belated sense of caution about trusting his unworthy 
accomplice while he is away committing the burglary. 
The time goes on ; the couple in the flat hear the clock 
strike twelve before BirchilFs returning footsteps are 
heard. He enters, and immediately announces to Hill 
and the girl, with every symptom of strongly marked 
terror, that while on his burglarious mission, he has 
come across the dead body of Sir Horace Fewbanks — 
murdered in his own house. Mark that! he tells them 
freely and openly — tells Hill — as soon as he gets in the 
flat. Allowing for possible defects in my previous rea- 
soning against Hill’s story, admitting that an adroit 
prosecuting counsel may be able to buttress up some of 
the weak points, allowing that you may have other cir- 
cumstantial evidence supporting your case, that is the 
fatal flaw in your chain : because of Birchill’s statement 
on his return to the flat no jury in the world ought to 
convict him.” 

“I don’t see why,” said Rolfe. 

Crewe fixed his deep eyes intently on Rolfe as he 
replied : 

“Because, if Birchill had committed this murder, he 
would never have admitted immediately on his returning, 
least of all to Hill, anything about the dead body.” 

“But he told Hill that he didn’t commit the murder,” 
protested Rolfe. 

“But you say that he did commit the murder,” re- 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


156 

torted the detective. “You cannot use that piece of evi- 
dence both ways. Your case is that this man Birchill, 
while visiting Riversbrook to commit a burglary which 
he and Hill arranged, encountered Sir Horace Fewbanks 
and murdered him. I say that his admission to Hill on 
his return to the flat that he had come across the body 
of Sir Horace Fewbanks, is proof that Birchill did not 
commit the murder. No murderer would make such a 
damning admission, least of all to a man he didn’t trust 
— to a man who he believed was capable of entrapping 
him. Next you have Birchill consenting to a message 
being sent to Scotland Yard conveying the information 
that Sir Horace had been murdered. Is that the action 
of a guilty man ? Wouldn’t it have been more to his in- 
terest to leave the dead man’s body undiscovered in the 
empty house and bolt from the country? It might have 
remained a week or more before being discovered. True, 
he would have had to find some way of silencing Hill 
while he got away from the country. He might have had 
to resort to the crude method of tying Hill up, gagging 
him, and leaving him in the flat. But even that would 
have been better than to inform the police immediately 
of the murder and place his life at the mercy of Hill, 
whom he distrusted.” 

“Looked at your way, I admit that there are some 
weak points in our case,” said Rolfe. “But you’ll find 
that our Counsel will be able to answer most of them 
in his address to the jury. If Birchill didn’t commit the 
murder, who did? Do you deny that he went up to 
Riversbrook that night?” 

“The letter sent to Scotland Yard shows that some 
one was there besides the murderer. If Birchill was 
there and helped to write the letter — and so much is 
part of your case — he wasn’t the murderer. In short, I 
believe Birchill went up there to commit a burglary and 
found the murdered body of Sir Horace.” 

“Do you think that Hill did it?” asked Rolfe. 

“That is more than I’d like to say. As a matter of 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


157 


fact I have been so obtuse as to neglect Hill somewhat in 
my investigations. In fact, I didn’t know until I got 
hold of a copy of his statement to the police that he was 
an ex-convict. Inspector Chippenfield omitted to inform 
me of the fact.” 

“I didn’t know that,” said Rolfe, without a blush, as he 
rose to go. “He ought to have told you.” 


CHAPTER XV 


When Rolfe left Crewe’s office he went back to Scot- 
land Yard. He found Inspector Chippenfield still in his 
office, and related to him the substance of his interview 
with Crewe. The inspector listened to the recital in grow- 
ing anger. 

“Birchill not the right man?” he spluttered. “Why, 
of course he is* The case against him is purely circum- 
stantial, but it’s as clear as daylight.” 

“Then you don’t think there’s anything in Crewe’s 
points?” asked Rolfe. 

“I think so little of them that I look upon Birchill 
as good as hanged! That for Crewe’s points!” In- 
spector Chippenfield snapped his fingers contemptu- 
ously. “And I’m surprised to think that you, Rolfe, 
whose loyalty to your superior officer is a thing I would 
have staked my life on, should have sat there and listened 
to such rubbish. I wouldn’t have listened to him for 
two minutes — no, not for half a minute. He was trying 
to pick our case to pieces out of blind spite and jealousy, 
because we’ve got ahead of him in the biggest murder 
case London’s had for many a long day. A man who 
jaunts off to Scotland looking for clues to a murder 
committed in London is a fool, Rolfe — that’s what I call 
him. We have beaten him — beaten him badly, and he 
doesn’t like it. But it is not the first time Scotland Yard 
has beaten him, and it won’t be the last.” 

“I suppose you’re right,” said Rolfe. “But there’s 
one point he made which rather struck me, I must say — 
that about Birchill telling Hill he’d found the dead body. 
Would Birchill have told Hill that, if he’d committted 
the murder?” 

“Nothing more likely,” exclaimed the inspector. “My 
158 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


159 


theory is that Birchill, while committing the burglary 
at Riversbrook, was surprised by Sir Horace Few- 
banks. It is possible that the judge tried to capture 
Birchill to hand him over to the police, and Birchill 
shot him. I believe that Birchill fired both shots — that 
he had two revolvers. But whatever took place, a dan- 
gerous criminal like Birchill would not require much 
provocation to silence a man who interrupted him while 
he was on business bent, and a man, moreover, against 
whom he nursed a bitter grudge. In this case it is 
possible there was no provocation at all. Sir Horace 
Fewbanks may have simply heard a noise, entered the 
room where Birchill was, and been shot down without 
mercy. Birchill heard him coming and was ready for 
him with a revolver in each hand. You’ve got to bear 
in mind that Birchill went to the house in a dangerous 
mood, half mad with drink, and furious with anger 
against Sir Horace Fewbanks for cutting off the allow- 
ance of the girl he was living with. He threatened be- 
fore he left the flat to commit the burglary that he’d 
do for the judge if he interfered with him.” 

“That’s according to Hill’s statement,” said Rolfe. 

Inspector Chippenfield glanced at his subordinate in 
some surprise. 

“Of course it’s Hill’s statement,” he said. “Isn’t he 
our principal witness, and doesn’t his statement fit in 
with all the facts we have been able to gather? Well, 
the murder of Sir Horace, no matter how it was com- 
mitted, was committed in cold blood. But immediately 
Birchill had done it the fact that he had committed 
a murder would have a sobering effect on him. Al- 
though he bragged before he left the flat for Rivers- 
brook about killing the judge if he came across him, 
he had no intention of jeopardising his neck unneces- 
sarily, and after he had shot down the judge in a 
moment of drunken passion he would be anxious to keep 
Hill— whom he mistrusted — from knowing that he had 
committed the murder. But he was fully aware that Hill 


160 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

would be the person who’d discover the body next day, 
and that if he wasn’t put on his guard he would bring in 
the police and probably give away everything that Birchill 
had said and done. So, to obviate this risk and prepare 
Hill, Birchill hit on the plan of telling him that he’d 
found the judge’s dead body while burgling the place. 
It was a bold idea, and not without its advantages when 
you consider what an awkward fix Birchill was in. Not 
only did it keep Hill quiet, but it forced him into the 
position of becoming a kind of silent accomplice in the 
crime. You remember Hill did not give the show away 
until he was trapped, and then he only confessed to save 
his own skin. He’s a dangerous and deep scoundrel, this 
Birchill, but he’ll swing this time, and you’ll find that 
his confession of finding the body will do more than 
anything else to hang him — properly put to the jury, 
and I’ll see that it is properly put.” 

Rolfe pondered much over these two conflicting points 
of view — Crewe’s and Inspector Chippenfield’s — for the 
rest of the day. He inclined to Inspector Chippenfield’s 
conclusions regarding Birchill’s admission about the body. 
The idea that he had assisted in arresting the wrong man 
and had helped to build up a case against him 
was too unpalatable for him to accept it. But he was 
forced to admit that Crewe’s theory was distinctly a 
plausible one. Though it was impossible for him to give 
up the conviction that Birchill was the murderer, he felt 
that Crewe’s analysis of the case for the prosecution con- 
tained several telling points which might be used with 
some effect on a jury in the hands of an experienced coun- 
sel. Rolfe had no doubt that Holymead would make the 
most of those points, and he also knew that the famous 
barrister was at his best in attacking circumstantial evi- 
dence. 

That night, while walking home, the idea occurred to 
Rolfe of going over to Camden Town after supper to 
see if by questioning Hill again he could throw a little 
more light on what had taken place at Doris Fanning’s 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 161 

flat the night Sir Horace Fewbanks was murdered. Hill 
had been questioned and cross-questioned at Scotland 
Yard by Inspector Chippenfield concerning the events of 
that night, and professed to have confessed to every- 
thing that had happened, but Rolfe thought it possible 
he might be able to extract something more which 
might assist in strengthening what Crewe regarded as the 
weak points in the police case against Birchill. Rolfe had 
every justification for such a visit, for, though Hill 
had not been arrested, he had been ordered by Inspec- 
tor Chippenfield to report himself daily to the Cam- 
den Town Police Station, and the police of that district 
had been instructed to keep a strict eye on his movements. 
Inspector Chippenfield did not regard his principal 
witness in the forthcoming murder trial as the sort of 
man likely to bolt, but if he permitted him for politic 
reasons to retain his liberty, he took every precaution to 
ensure that Hill should not abuse his privilege. 

Rolfe lived in lodgings at King’s Cross, and, as the 
evening was fine and he was fond of exercise, he decided 
to walk across to Hill’s place. 

As he walked along his thoughts revolved round the 
murder of Sir Horace Fewbanks, and the baffling per- 
plexities which had surrounded its elucidation. Had they 
got hold of the right man — the real murderer — in Fred 
Birchill? Rolfe kept asking himself that question again 
and again. A few hours ago he had not the slightest 
doubt on the point; he had looked upon the great mur- 
der case as satisfactorily solved, and he had thought with 
increasing satisfaction of his own share in bringing 
the murderer to justice. He had anticipated newspaper 
praise on his sharpness: judicial commendation, a favour- 
able official entry in the departmental records of Scot- 
land Yard, with perhaps promotion for the good work 
he had accomplished in this celebrated case. These rosy 
visions had been temporarily dissipated by the conversa- 
tion he had had with Crewe that morning. If Crewe 
had not succeeded in destroying Rolfe’s conviction that 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


162 

the murderer of Sir Horace Fewbanks had been caught, 
he had pointed out sufficient flaws in the police case 
to shake Rolfe’s previous assurance of the legal convic- 
tion of Birchill for the crime. The way in which Crewe 
had pulled the police case to pieces had shown Rolfe 
that the conviction of Birchill was by no means a fore- 
gone conclusion, and had left him a prey to doubts and 
anxiety which Inspector Chippenfield’s subsequent depre- 
ciation of the detective’s views had not altogether re- 
moved. 

The little shop kept by the Hills was empty when 
Rolfe entered it, but Mrs. Hill appeared from the inner 
room in answer to his knock. The faded little woman 
did not recognise the police officer at first, but when he 
spoke she looked into his face with a start. She timidly 
said, in reply to his inquiry for her husband, that he had 
just “stepped out” down the street. 

“Then you had better send your little girl after him,” 
said Rolfe, seating himself on the one rickety chair on 
the outside of the counter. “I want to see him.” 

Mrs. Hill seemed at a loss to reply for a moment. 
Then she answered, nervously plucking at her apron the 
while: “I don’t think it’d be much use doing that, sir. 
You see, Mr. Hill doesn’t always tell me where he’s go- 
ing and I don’t really know where he is.” 

“Then why did you tell me that he had just stepped 
out down the street?” asked Rolfe sharply. 

“Because I thought he mightn’t be far away.” 

“Then, as a matter of fact, you don’t know where he 
is or when he’ll be back?” 

"No, sir.” 

Her prompt and uncompromising reply indicated that 
she did not want him to wait for her husband. 

“I think I’ll wait,” said Rolfe, looking at her steadily. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Daphne appeared at the door of the parlour which 
led into the shop and her mother waved her back angrily. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 163 

“Go to bed this instant, miss ; it’s long past your bed- 
time, she said. 

It was obvious that Mrs. Hill retained a vivid recollec- 
tion of how disastrous had been Daphne’s appearance 
during Inspector Chippenfield’s first visit to the shop. 

“Perhaps your little girl knows where her father is,” 
said Rolfe maliciously. 

“No, she doesn’t,” replied Mrs. Hill with some spirit. 
“You can ask her if you like.” 

Rolfe was suddenly struck with an idea and he de- 
cided to test it. 

“I won’t wait — I’ve changed my mind. But if your 
husband comes in tell him not to go to bed until I’ve 
seen him. I’ll be back.” 

“Yes, sir,” she replied. 

“Do you think he was going to Riversbrook ?” he 
asked. 

The woman flushed suddenly and then v^snt pale. She 
knew as well as Rolfe that her husband was strictly for- 
bidden, pending the trial, to go near the place of his for- 
mer employment, and that the police had relieved him of 
Ilk keys and taken possession of the silent house and 
locked everything up. 

“No, sir,” she replied, with trembling lips, “Mr. Hill 
hasn’t gone over there.” 

“How can you be certain, if he didn’t tell you where he 
was going?” asked Rolfe. 

“Because it’s the last place in the world he’d think 
of going to,” gasped Mrs. Hill. “Such a thought would 
never enter his head. I do assure you, sir, Mr. Hill 
would never dream of going over there, sir, you can 
take my word for it.” 

Rolfe walked thoughtfully up High Street. Was it 
possible that Hill had gone to his late master’s residence 
in defiance of the orders of the police? If so, only some 
very powerful motive, and probably one which affected 
the crime, could have induced him to risk his liberty by 
making such a visit after he had been commanded to 


1 64 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


keep away from the place. And how would he get into 
the house? Rolfe had himself locked up the house and 
had locked the gates, and the bunch of keys was at 
that moment hanging up in Inspector Chippenfield’s 
room in Scotland Yard. But even as he asked that ques- 
tion, Rolfe found himself smiling at himself for his 
simplicity. Nothing could be easier for a man like Hill 
• — an ex-criminal — to have obtained a duplicate key, be- 
fore handing over possession of the keys. Rolfe had 
noticed with surprise when he was locking up the house 
that the French windows of the morning room were 
locked from the outside by a small key as well as being 
bolted from the inside. Hill had explained that the 
late Sir Horace Fewbanks had generally used this French 
window for gaining access to his room after a nocturnal 
excursion. 

Rolfe looked at his watch. It was nine o’clock. He 
decided to go to Hampstead and put his suspicions 
to the test. It was quite possible he was mistaken, but 
if, on the other hand, Hill was paying a nocturnal visit 
to Riversbrook and he had the luck to capture him, he 
might extract from him some valuable evidence for 
the forthcoming trial that Hill had kept back. And Rolfe 
was aboVe all things interested at that moment in making 
the case for the prosecution as strong as possible. 

Rolfe walked to the Camden Town Underground sta- 
tion, bought a ticket for Hampstead, and took his seat 
in the tube in that state of exhilarated excitement 
which comes to the detective when he feels that he is 
on the road to a disclosure. The speed of the train 
seemed all too slow for the police officer, and he looked 
at his watch at least a dozen times during the short 
journey from Camden Town to Hampstead. 

When Rolfe arrived at Hampstead he set out at a 
rapid walk for Riversbrook. It was quite dark when 
he reached Tan ton Gardens. He turned into the rustling 
avenue of chestnut trees, and strode swiftly down till 
he reached the deserted house of the murdered man. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 165 

The gate was locked as he had left it, but Rolfe 
climbed over it. A late moon was already throwing a 
refulgent light through the evening mists, silvering the 
tops of the fir trees in front of the house. Rolfe walked 
through the plantation, his footsteps falling noiselessly 
on the pine needles which strewed the path. He quickly 
reached the other side of the little wood, and the Italian 
garden lay before him, stretching in silver glory to the 
dark old house beyond. 

Rolfe stood still at the edge of the wood, and glanced 
across the moonlit garden to the house. It seemed 
dark, deserted and desolate. There was no sign of a 
light in any of the windows facing the plantation. 

The moon, rising above the fringe of trees in the 
woodland which skirted the meadows of the east side 
of the house, cast a sudden ray athwart the upper portion 
of the house. But the windows of the retreating first 
story still remained in shadow. Rolfe scrutinised these 
windows closely. There were three of them — he knew 
that two of them opened out from the bedroom the 
dead man used to occupy, and the third one belonged to 
the library adjoining — the room where the murder had 
been committed. The moonlight, gradually stealing over 
the house, revealed the windows of the bedroom closed 
and the blinds down, but the library was still in shadow, 
for a large chestnut-tree which grew in front of the house 
was directly in the line of Rolfe’s vision. 

Rolfe remained watching the house for some time, but 
no sign or sound of life could he detect in its silent 
desolation. “I must have been mistaken,” he muttered, 
with a final glance at the windows of the first story. 
“There’s nobody in the house.” 

He turned to go, and had taken a few steps through 
the pinewood when suddenly he started and stood still. 
His quick ear had caught a faint sound — a kind of rattle 
— coming from the direction of the house. What was 
that noise which sounded so strangely familiar to his 
ears? He had it! It was the fall of a Venetian blind. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


1 66 

Instantaneously there came to Rolfe the remembrance 
that Inspector Chippenfield had ordered the library blind 
to be left up, so that when the sun was high in the heavens 
its rays, striking in through the window over the top of 
the chestnut-tree, might dry up the stain of blood on the 
floor, which washing had failed to efface. Somebody was 
in the library and had dropped the blind. 

Rolfe hurriedly retraced his steps to the edge of the 
plantation, and raced across the Italian garden, feeling 
for his revolver as he ran. Some instinct told him that 
he would find entrance through the French windows 
on the west side of the morning room, and thither he 
directed his steps. He pulled out his electric torch and 
tried the windows. They were shut, and the first one 
was locked. The second one yielded to his hand. He 
pulled it open, and stepped into the room. Making his 
way by the light of his torch to the stairs, he swiftly 
but silently crept up them and turned to the library on 
the left of the first landing. The door was closed but 
not locked, and a faint light came through the keyhole. 
Rolfe pushed the door open, and looked into the room. A 
man was leaning over the dead judge’s writing-desk, ex^ 
amining its contents by the light of a candle which he had 
set down on the desk. He was so engrossed in his oc- 
cupation that he did not hear the door open. 

“What are you doing there?” demanded Rolfe sternly. 
His voice sounded hollow and menacing as it reverber- 
ated through the room. 

The man at the desk started up, and turned round. 
It was Hill. When he saw Rolfe he looked as though 
he would fall. He made as if to step forward. Then 
he stood quite still, looking at the officer with ashen 
face. 

“Hill,” said Rolfe quietly, “what does this mean?” 

The butler had regained his self-composure with won- 
derful quickness. The mask of reticence dropped over 
his face again, and it was in the smooth deferential tones 
of a well-trained servant that he replied: 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 167 

“Nothing, sir, I just slipped over from the shop to 
see if everything was all right.” 

“How did you get into the house?” 

“By the French window, sir. I had a duplicate key 
which Sir Horace had made.” 

“And I see you also have a duplicate key of the 
desk. Why didn’t you give these keys up with the 
others to Inspector Chippenfield ?” 

“I forgot about them at the time, sir. I found them 
in an old pocket this evening, and I was so uneasy about 
the house shut up with a lot of valuable things in it 
and nobody to give an eye to them that I just slipped 
across to see everything was all right.” 

“You came here after dark, and let yourself in with 
a private key after you had been strictly ordered not to 
come near the place? You have the audacity to admit 
you have done this?” 

“Well, it’s this way, sir. I was a trusted servant of 
Sir Horace’s. I knew a great deal about his private 
life, if I may say so. I know he kept a lot of private 
papers in this room, and I wanted to make sure they were 
safe — I didn’t like them being in this empty house, sir. 
I couldn’t sleep in my bed of nights for thinking of 
them, sir. I felt last night as if my poor dead master 
was standing at my bedside, urging me to go over. I 
am very sorry I disobeyed the police orders, Mr. Rolfe, 
but I acted for the best.” 

“Hill, you are lying, you are keeping something back. 
Unless you immediately tell me the real reason of your 
visit to this house to-night I will take you down to the 
Hampstead Police Station and have you locked up. This 
visit of yours will take a lot of explaining away after 
your previous confession, Hill. It’s enough to put you in 
the dock with Birchill.” 

Hill’s eyes, which had been fixed on Rolfe’s face, 
wavered towards the door-way, as though he were medi- 
tating a rush for freedom. But he merely remarked : 

“I’ve told you the truth, sir, though perhaps not all 


1 68 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


of it. I came across to see if I could find some of Sir 
Horace’s private papers which are missing.” 

“How do you know there are any papers missing?” 

“As I said before, Mr. Rolfe, Sir Horace trusted me 
and he didn’t take the trouble to hide things from 
me.” 

“You mean that he often left his desk open with im- 
portant papers scattered about it?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And you made a practice of going through them?” 

“I didn’t make a practice of it,” protested Hill. “But 
sometimes I glanced at one or two of them. I thought 
there was no harm in it, knowing that Sir Horace trusted 

„ tf 

me. 

“And some papers that you knew were there are now 
missing. Do you mean stolen?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“When did you see them last?” 

“Just before Inspector Chippenfield came — the morning 
after the body was discovered. You remember, sir, that 
he came straight up here while you stayed downstairs 
talking to Constable Flack.” 

“Do you mean to suggest that Inspector Chippenfield 
stole them ?” 

“Oh, no, sir, I don’t think he saw them. Sir Horace 
kept them in this little place at the back of the desk. 
Look at it, sir. It’s a sort of secret drawer.” 

Rolfe went over to the desk, and Hill explained to 
him how the hiding place could be closed and opened. 
It was at the back of the desk under the pigeonholes, and 
the fact that the pigeonholes came close down to the desk 
hid the secret drawer and the spring which controlled it. 

“What was the nature of these papers ?” asked Rolfe. 

“Well, sir, I never read them. Sir Horace set such 
store by them that I never dared to open them for fear 
he would find out. They were mostly letters and they 
were tied up with a piece of silk ribbon.” 

“A Jady’s letters, of_ course,”, said Rolfe. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 169 

“Tudging from the writing on the envelopes they were 
sent by a lady,” said Hill. 

Rolfe breathed quickly, for he felt that he was on 
the verge of a discovery. Here was evidence of a lady 
in the case, which might lead to a startling development. 
Perhaps Crewe was right in declaring that Birchill was 
the wrong man, he said to himself. Perhaps the mur- 
derer was not a man, but a woman. 

“And who do you think stole them?” he asked Hill. 

“That is more than I would like to say,” replied the 
butler. 

“Are you sure they were in this hiding place when 
Inspector Chippenfield took charge of everything?” 

“Yes, sir. I dusted out the room the morning you 
and he came to Riversbrook together, and the papers 
were there then, because I happened to touch the spring 
as I was dusting the desk, and it flew open and I saw 
the bundle there.” 

“Why didn’t you tell Inspector Chippenfield about the 
papers and the secret drawer?” 

“That is what I intended to do, sir, if he didn’t find 
them himself. But when I had found they had gone I 
didn’t like to say anything to him, because, as you may 
say, I had no right to know anything about them.” 

“When did they go: when did you find they were 
missing?” 

“When Inspector Chippenfield went out for his lunch. 
I looked in the desk and found they had gone.” 

“Who could have taken them? Who had access to 
the room?” 

“Well, sir, Mr. Chippenfield had some visitors that 
morning.” 

“Yes. There were about a dozen newspaper reporters 
during the day at various times. There were Dr. Slingsby 
and his assistant, who came out to make the post-mortem : 
Inspector Seldon, who came to arrange about the inquest, 
and there was that man from the undertakers who came 
to inquire about the funeral arrangements. But none 


170 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


of these men were likely to take the papers, and still less 
to know where they were hidden. In any case, no visitor 
could get at the desk while Mr. Chippenfield was in the 
room. And he is too careful to have left any visitor 
alone in this room — it was here that the murder was 
committed.” 

“He left one of his visitors alone here for a few 
minutes,” said Hill in a voice which was little more than 
a whisper. 

“Which one?” asked Rolfe eagerly. 

“A lady.” 

“Who was she?” 

“Mrs. Holymead.” 

“Oh!” Rolfe’s exclamation was one of disappoint- 
ment. “She is a friend of the family. She came out 
to see Miss Fewbanks — it was a visit of condolence.” 

“Yes, sir,” said the obsequious butler. “She was a 
friend of the family, as you say. She was a friend of 
Sir Horace’s. I have heard that Sir Horace paid her 
considerable attention before she married Mr. Holy- 
mead— it was a toss up which of them she married, 
so I’ve been told.” 

Rolfe saw that he had made a mistake in dismissing 
the idea of Mrs. Holymead having anything to do with 
the missing papers. “Do you think that she stole these 
letters — these papers?” he asked. “Do you think she 
knew where they were?” 

“While she was in the room, Inspector Chippenfield 
came rushing downstairs for a glass of water. He said 
she had fainted.” 

“Whew !” Rolfe gave a low prolonged whistle. “And 
after she left you took the first opportunity of looking 
to see if the papers were still there, and you found 
they were gone?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“What made you suspect Mrs. Holymead would take 
them ?” 

“Well, sir, I didn’t suspect her at the time. I just 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


171 

looked to see if Inspector Chippenfield had found them. 
I saw they had gone, and as I couldn’t see any sign 
of them about anywhere else I concluded they must 
have been taken without Inspector Chippenfield knowing 
anything about it. The reason I came over here to-night 
was to have another careful look round for them.” 

Rolfe was silent for a moment. 

“What would you have done with the papers if you 
had found them?” he asked suddenly. 

“I would have handed them over to the police, sir,” 
said the butler, who obviously had been prepared for a 
question of the kind. 

“And what explanation would you have given for hav- 
ing found them — for having come over here in defiance 
of your orders from Inspector Chippenfield?” 

“The true explanation, sir,” said the butler, with a 
mild note of protest in his voice. “I would have told 
Inspector Chippenfield what I have already told you. And 
it is the simple truth.” 

Rolfe was plainly taken back at this rebuke, but he 
did not reply to it. 

“In your statement of what took place when Birchill 
returned to the flat after committing the murder, he said 
something about having seen a woman leave the house 
by the front door as he was hiding in the garden — a 
fashionably dressed woman I think he said.” 

“Yes, sir, that was it.” 

“Do you believe that part of his story was true?” 

“Well, sir, with a man like Birchill it is impossible to 
say when he is telling the truth, and when he isn’t.” 

“There was no lady with Sir Horace when you left 
him that night when he returned from Scotland?” 

“No, sir.” 

“I think you said he was in a hurry to get you out of 
the house, and told you not to come back?” 

“That is what I thought at the time, sir.” 

“Well, Hill,” said Rolfe, resuming his severe official 
tone, “all this does not excuse in any way your con- 


172 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


duct in coming over here and forcing your way into the 
house in defiance of the police; opening this desk, and 
prying about for private papers that don’t concern you. 
The proper course for you to adopt was to come to 
Scotland Yard and tell your story about these missing 
papers to Inspector Chippenfield or myself. Hpwever, 
I don’t propose to take any action against you at present. 
Only there is to be no more of it. If you come hanging 
about here again on your own account, you’ll find your- 
self in the dock beside Birchill. Hand me over the dupli- 
cate key of the door by which you came in, and also the 
key of the desk which you had still less right to have in 
your possession. Say nothing to anyone about those 
papers until I give you permission to do so.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


The day fixed for the trial of Frederick Birchill was 
wet, dismal, and dreary. The rain pelted intermittently 
through a hazy, chilly atmosphere, filling the gutters and 
splashing heavily on the slippery pavements. But in spite 
of the rain a long queue, principally of women, assem- 
bled outside the portals of the Old Bailey long before the 
time fixed for the opening of the court. At the private 
entrance to the courthouse arrived fashionably-dressed 
ladies accompanied by well-groomed men. They had re- 
ceived cards of admission and had seats reserved for them 
in the body of the court. Many of them had personally 
known the late Sir Horace Fewbanks, and their interest 
in the trial of the man accused of his murder was intensi- 
fied by the rumours afloat that there were to be some spicy 
revelations concerning the dead judge's private life. 

The arrival of Mr. Justice Hodson, who was to preside 
at the trial, caused a stir among some of the spectators, 
many of whom belonged to the criminal class. Sir Henry 
Hodson had presided at so many murder trials that he 
was known among them as “the Hanging Judge.” Among 
the spectators were some whom Sir Henry had put into 
mourning at one time or another ; there were others whom 
he had deprived of their bread-winners for specified peri- 
ods. These spectators looked at him with curiosity, fear, 
and hatred. Mr. Holymead, K.C., drove up in a taxi-cab 
a few minutes later, and his arrival created an impression 
akin to admiration. In the eyes of the criminal class he 
was an heroic figure who had assumed the responsibility 
of saving the life of one of their fraternity. The eminent 
counsel's success in the few criminal cases in which he had 
consented to appear had gained him the respectful esteem 
173 


174 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


of those who considered themselves oppressed by the law, 
and the spectators on the pavement might have raised a 
cheer for him if their exuberance had not been restrained 
by the proximity of the policeman guarding the en- 
trance. 

When the court was opened Inspector Chippen- 
field took a seat in the body of the court behind the 
barrister’s bench. He ranged his eye over the closely- 
packed spectators in the gallery, and shook his head with 
manifest disapproval. It seemed to him that the worst 
criminals in London had managed to elude the vigilance 
of the sergeant outside in order to see the trial of their 
notorious colleague, Fred Birchill. He pointed out their 
presence to Rolfe, who was seated alongside him. 

“There’s that scoundrel Bob Rogers, who slipped 
through our hands over the Ealing case, and his pal, 
Breaker Jim, who’s just done seven years, looking down 
and grinning at us,” he angrily whispered. “I’ll give 
them something to grin about before they’re much 
older. You’d think Breaker would have had enough of 
the Old Bailey to last him a lifetime. And look at that 
row alongside of them — there’s Morris, Hart, Harry the 
Hooker, and that chap Willis who murdered the pawn- 
broker in Commercial Road last year, only we could 
never sheet it home to him. And two rows behind them 
is old Charlie, the Covent Garden ‘drop/ with Holder 
Jack and Kemp, Birchill’s mate. Why, they’re every- 
where. The inquest was nothing to this, Rolfe.” 

“Kemp must be thanking his lucky stars he wasn’t 
in that Riversbrook job with Fred Birchill,” said Rolfe, 
“for they usually work together. And there’s Crewe, up 
in the gallery.” 

“Where?” exclaimed Inspector Chippenfield, with an 
indignant start. 

“Up there behind that pillar there — no, the next one. 
See, he’s looking down at you.” 

Crewe caught the inspector’s eye, and nodded and 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


175 


smiled in a friendly fashion, but Inspector Chippenfield 
returned the salutation with a haughty glare. 

“The impudence of that chap is beyond belief,” he said 
to his subordinate. “One would have thought he’d have 
kept away from court after his wild-goose chase to Scot- 
land and piling up expenses, but not him! Brazen im- 
pudence is the stock-in-trade of the private detective. If 
Scotland Yard had a little more of the impudence of 
the private detective, Rolfe, we should be better ap- 
preciated.” 

“I suppose he’s come in the hopes of seeing the jury 
acquit Birchill,” said Rolfe. 

“No doubt,” replied Inspector Chippenfield. “But he’s 
come to the wrong shop. A good jury should con- 
vict without leaving the box if the case is properly put 
before them by the prosecution. Crewe would like to 
triumph over us, but it is our turn to win.” 

But Inspector Chippenfield was wrong in think- 
ing that Crewe’s presence in court was due to a desire 
for the humiliation of his rivals. Crewe had spent most 
of the previous night reading and revising his summaries 
and notes of the Riversbrook case, and in minutely re- 
viewing his investigations of it. Over several pipes in 
the early morning hours he pondered long and deeply on 
the secret of Sir Horace Fewbanks’s murder, without 
finding a solution which satisfactorily accounted for all 
the strange features of the case. But one thing he felt 
sure of was that Birchill had not committed the murder. 
He based that belief partly on the butler’s confession, and 
partly on his own discoveries. He believed Hill to be a 
cunning scoundrel who had overreached the police for 
some purpose of his own by accusing Birchill, and who, 
to make his story more probable, had even implicated 
himself in the supposed burglary as a terrorised accom- 
plice. And Crewe had been unable to test the butler’s 
story, or find out what game he was playing, because of 
the assuidity with which the principal witness for the 
prosecution had been “nursed” by the police from the 


176 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

moment he made his confession. Crewe bit hard into 
his amber mouthpiece in vexation as he recalled the 
ostrich-like tactics of Inspector Chippenfield, who, having 
accepted Hill’s story as genuine, had officially baulked all 
his efforts to see the man and question him about it. 

He had come to court with the object of witnessing 
Birchill’s behaviour in the dock and the efforts of any of 
his criminal friends to communicate with him. As a 
man who had had considerable experience in criminal 
trials he knew the irresistible desire of the criminal in 
the gallery of the court to encourage the man in the 
dock to keep up his courage. Communications of the 
kind had to be made by signs. It was Crewe’s impres- 
sion that by watching Birchill in the dock and Birchill’s 
friends in the gallery he might pick up a valuable hint 
or two. It was also his intention to study closely the 
defence which Counsel for the prisoner intended to put 
forward. 

It was therefore with a feeling of mingled annoyance 
and surprise that Crewe, looking down from his point 
of vantage at the bevy of fashionably-dressed ladies in 
the body of the court, recognised Mrs. Holymead, 
Mademoiselle Chiron and Miss FewL iks seated side by 
side, engaged in earnest conversation. Before he could 
withdraw from their view behind the pillar in front of 
him, Miss Fewbanks looked up and saw him. She bowed 
to him in friendly recognition, and Crewe saw her whis- 
per to Mrs. Holymead, who glanced quickly in his direc- 
tion and then as quickly averted her gaze. But in that 
fleeting glance of her beautiful dark eyes Crewe detected 
an expression of fear, as though she dreaded his pres- 
ence, and he noticed that she shivered slightly as she 
turned to resume her conversation with Miss Few- 
banks. 

His Honour Mr. Justice Hodson entered, and the per- 
sons in the court scrambled hurriedly to their feet to 
pay their tribute of respect to British law, as exemplified 
in the person of a stout red-faced old gentleman wearing 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 177 

a scarlet gown and black sash, and attended by four of 
the Sheriffs of London in their fur-trimmed robes. The 
judge bowed in response and took his seat. The spec- 
tators resumed theirs, craning their necks eagerly to 
look at the accused man, Birchill, who wak brought into 
the dock by two warders. The work of empanelling a 
jury commenced, and when it was completed Mr. Walters, 
K.C., opened the case for the prosecution. 

Mr. Walters was a long-winded Counsel who had de- 
tested the late Mr. Justice Fewbanks because of the lat- 
ter’s habit of interrupting the addresses of Counsel with 
the object of inducing them to curtail their remarks. 
This practice was not only annoying to Counsel, who 
necessarily knew better than the judge what the jury 
ought to be told, but it also tended to hold Counsel up 
to ridicule in the eyes of ignorant jurymen as a man 
who could not do his work properly without the watch- 
ful correction of the judge. But Mr. Walters, whose 
legal training had imbued in him a respect for Latin 
tags, subscribed to the adage, de mortuis nil nisi bonum. 
Therefore he began his address to the jury with a glow- 
ing reference to the loss, he might almost say the irrep- 
arable loss, which the judiciary had sustained, he 
would go so far as to say the loss which the nation had 
sustained by the death, the violent death, in short, the 
murder, of an eminent judge of the High Court Bench, 
whose clear and vigorous intellect, whose marvellous 
mastery of the legal principles laid down by the judicial 
giants of the past, whose inexhaustible knowledge drawn 
from the storehouses of British law, whose virile in- 
terpretations of the principles of British justice, whose 
unfailing courtesy and consideration to Counsel, the mem- 
ory of which would long be cherished by those who 
had had the privilege of pleading before him, had made 
him an acquisition and an ornament to a Bench which 
in the eyes of the nation had always represented, and 
at no time more than the present — at this point Mr. 


178 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


Walters bowed to the presiding judge — the embodiment 
of legal knowledge, legal experience, and legal wisdom. 

After this tribute to the murdered man and the pre- 
siding judge, Mr. Walters proceeded to lay the facts 
of the crime before the jury, who had read all about 
them in the newspapers. 

With methodical care he built up the case against the 
accused man, classifying the points of evidence against 
him in categorical order for the benefit of the jury. The 
most important witness for the prosecution was a man 
known as James Hill, who had been in Sir Horace Few- 
banks’s employ as a butler. Hill’s connection with the 
prisoner was in some aspects unfortunate, for himself, 
and no doubt counsel for the defence would endeavour to 
discredit his evidence on that account, but the jury, when 
they heard the butler tell his story in the witness-box, 
would have little difficulty in coming to the conclusion 
that the man Hill was the victim of circumstances and his 
own weakness of temperament. However much they 
might be disposed to blame him for the course he had 
pursued, he was innocent of all complicity in his master’s 
death, and had done his best to help the ends of justice 
by coming forward with a voluntary confession to the 
police. 

Mr. Walters made no attempt to conceal or extenuate 
the black page in Hill’s past, but he asked the jury to 
believe that Hill had bitterly repented of his former crime, 
and would have continued to lead an honest life as Sir 
Horace Fewbanks’s butler, if ill fate had not forged a 
cruel chain of circumstances to link him to his past life 
and drag him down by bringing him in contact with the 
accused man Birchill, whom he had met in prison. Sir 
Horace Fewbanks was the self-appointed guardian of a 
young woman named Doris Fanning, the daughter of a 
former employe on his country estate, who had died leav- 
ing her penniless. Sir Horace had deemed it his duty to 
bring up the girl and give her a start in life. After educat- 
ing her in a style suitable to her station, he sent her to Lon- 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


179 


don and paid for music lessons for her in order to fit her 
for a musical career, for which she showed some aptitude. 
Unfortunately the young woman had a self-willed and 
unbalanced temperament, and she gave her benefactor 
much trouble. Sir Horace bore patiently with her until 
she made the chance acquaintance of Birchill, and be- 
came instantly fascinated by him. The acquaintance 
speedily drifted into intimacy, and the girl became the 
pliant tool of Birchill, who acquired an almost magnetic 
influence over her. As the intimacy progressed she 
seemed to have become a willing partner in his criminal 
schemes. 

When Sir Horace Fewbanks heard that the girl had 
drifted into an association with a criminal like Birchill 
he endeavoured to save her from her folly by remonstrat- 
ing with her, and the girl promised to give up Birchill, but 
did not do so. When Sir Horace found out that he was 
being deceived he was compelled to renounce her. Bir- 
chill, who had been living on the girl, was furious with 
anger when he learnt that Sir Horace had cut off the 
monetary allowance he had been making her, and, on dis- 
covering by some means that his former prison associate 
Hill was now the butler at Sir Horace Fewbanks’s house, 
he planned his revenge. He sent the girl Fanning to Riv- 
ersbrook with a message to Hill, directing him, under 
threat of exposure, to see him at the Westminster flat. 

Hill, who dreaded nothing so much as an exposure of 
that past life of his which he hoped was a secret be- 
tween his master and himself, kept the appointment. 
Birchill told him he intended to rob the judge’s house 
in order to revenge himself on Sir Horace for cutting 
off the girl’s allowance, and he asked Hdl to assist him 
in carrying out the burglary. Hill strenuously demurred 
at first but weakly allowed himself to be terrorised into 
compliance under Birchill’s threats of exposure. Hill's 
participation in the crime was to be confined to preparing 


i8o 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


a plan of Riversbrook as a guide for Birchill. Birchill 
said nothing about murder at this time, but there is no 
doubt he contemplated violence when he first spoke to 
Hill. When Hill, alarmed by his master’s return on the 
actual night for which the burglary had been arranged; 
hurried across to the flat to urge Birchill to abandon 
the contemplated burglary, Birchill obstinately decided 
to carry out the crime, and left the flat with a revolver 
in his hand, threatening to murder Sir Horace if he found 
him, because of his harsh treatment — as he termed it — of 
the girl Fanning. 

“Birchill left the flat at nine o’clock,” continued Mr. 
Walters, who had now reached the vital facts of the night 
of the murder. “I ask the jury to take careful note of 
the time and the subsequent times mentioned, for they 
have an important bearing on the circumstantial evi- 
dence against the accused man. He returned, according 
to Hill’s evidence, shortly after midnight. Evidence will 
be called to show that Birchill, or a man answering his 
description, boarded a tramcar at Euston Road at 9.30 p. 
m., and journeyed in it to Hampstead. He was observed 
both at Euston Road and the Hampstead terminus by the 
conductor, because of his obvious desire to avoid atten- 
tion. There were only two other passengers on the top 
of the car when it left Euston Road. The conductor 
directed the attention of the driver to his movements, 
and they both watched him till he disappeared in the 
direction of the Heath. In fairness to the prisoner, it 
was necessary to point out, however, that neither the 
conductor nor the driver can identify him positively as 
the man they had seen on their car that night, but both 
will swear that to the best of their belief Birchill is the 
man. Assuming that it was the prisoner who travelled to 
Hampstead by the Euston Road tram — a route he would 
probably prefer because it took him to Hampstead by 
the most unfrequented way — he would have a distance of 
nearly a mile to walk across Hampstead Heath to Tanton 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 181 

Gardens, where Sir Horace Fewbanks’s house was 
situated. The evidence of the tram-men is that he set 
off across the Heath at a very rapid rate. The tram 
reached Hampstead at four minutes past ten, so that, 
by walking fast, it would be possible for a young ener- 
getic man to reach Riversbrook before a quarter to eleven. 
Another five minutes would see an experienced house- 
breaker like Birchill inside the house. At twenty minutes 
past eleven a young man named Ryder, who had wan- 
dered into Tanton Gardens while endeavouring to take 
a short cut home, heard the sound of a report, which 
at the time he took to be the noise of a door violently 
slammed, coming from the direction of Riversbrook. 
A few moments afterwards he saw a man climb over 
the front fence of Riversbrook to the street. He drew 
back cautiously into the shade of one of the chestnut 
trees of the street avenue, and saw the man plainly as 
he ran past him. Ryder will swear that the man he saw 
was Birchill.” 

“It’s a lie ! It’s a lie ! You’re trying to hang him, you 
wicked man. Oh, Fred, Fred!” 

The cry proceeded from the girl Doris Fanning. Her 
unbalanced temperament had been unable to bear the 
strain of sitting there and listening to Mr. Walters’ 
cold inexorable construction of a legal chain of evidence 
against her lover. She rose to her feet, shrieking wildly, 
and gesticulating menacingly at Mr. Walters. The So- 
ciety ladies turned eagerly in their seats to take in through 
their lorgnons every detail of the interruption. 

“Remove that woman,” the judge sternly commanded. 

Several policemen hastened to her, and the girl was 
partly hustled and partly carried out of court, shrieking 
as she went. When the commotion caused by the scene 
subsided, the judge irritably requested to be informed 
who the woman was. 

“I don’t know, my lord,” replied Mr. Walters. “Per- 
haps ” He stopped and bent over to Detective Rolfe, 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


182 

who was pulling at his gown. “Er — -yes, I’m informed by 
Detective Rolfe of Scotland Yard, my lord, that the young 
woman is a witness in the case.” 

“Then why was she permitted to remain in court?” 
asked Sir Henry Hodson angrily. “It is a piece of gross 
carelessness.” 

“I do not know, my lord. I was unaware she was a 
witness until this moment,” returned Mr. Walters, with 
a discreet glance in the direction of Detective Rolfe, as 
an indication to His Honour that the judicial storm might 
safely veer in that direction. Sir Henry took the hint 
and administered such a stinging rebuke to Detective 
Rolfe that that officer’s face took on a much redder tint 
before it was concluded. Then the judge motioned to 
Mr. Walters to resume the case. 

Counsel, with his index finger still in the place in his 
brief where he had been interrupted, ??ose to his feet again 
and turned to the jury. 

“Birchill returned to the flat at Westminster shortly 
after midnight,” he continued. “Hill had been compelled 
by Birchill’s threats to remain at the flat with the girl 
while Birchill visited Riversbrook, and the first thing 
Birchill told him on his return was that he had found 
Sir Horace Fewbanks dead in his house when he entered 
it. On his way back from committing the crime be- 
lated caution had probably dictated to Birchill the wis- 
dom of endeavouring to counteract his previous threat 
to murder Sir Horace Fewbanks. He probably remem- 
bered that Hill, who had heard the threat, was an un- 
willing participator in the plan for the burglary, and 
might therefore denounce him to the police for the greater 
crime if he (Birchill) admitted that he had committed it. 
In order to guard against this contingency still further 
Birchill forced Hill to join in writing a letter to Scot- 
land Yard, acquainting them with the murder, and the 
fact that the body was lying in the empty house. Birch- 
ill’s object in acting thus was a twofold one. He dared 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


183 


not trust Hill to pretend to discover the body the next 
day and give information to the police, for fear he 
should not be able to retain sufficient control of himself 
to convince the detectives that he was wholly ignorant 
of the crime, and he also thought that if Hill had a 
share in writing the letter he would feel an additional 
complicity in the crime, and keep silence for his own 
sake. Birchill was right in his calculations — up to a 
point. Hill was at first too frightened to disclose what 
he knew, but as time went on his affection for his mur- 
dered master, and his desire to bring the murderer to 
justice, overcame his feelings of fear for his own 
share in bringing about the crime, and he went and con- 
fessed everything to the police, regardless of the conse- 
quences that might recoil upon his own head. The case 
against Birchill depends largely on Hill’s evidence, and 
the jury, when th r y have heard his story in the wit- 
ness-box, and bearing in mind the extenuating circum- 
stances of his connection with the crime, will have little 
hesitation in coming to the conclusion that the prisoner 
in the dock murdered Sir Plorace Fewbanks.’ , 

The first witness called was Inspector Seldon, who 
gave evidence as to his visit to Riversbrook shortly be- 
fore 1 p. m. on the 19th of August as the result of in- 
formation received, and his discovery of the dead body of 
Sir Horace Fewbanks. He described the room in which 
the body was found; the position of the body; and he 
identified the blood-stained clothes produced by the prose- 
cution as being those in which the dead man was dressed 
when the body was discovered. In cross-examination 
by Holymead he stated that Sir Horace Fewbanks was 
fully dressed when the body was found. The witness also 
stated in cross-examination that none of the electric 
lights in the house were burning when the body was 
discovered. 

The next witness was Dr. Slingsby, the pathological 
expert from the Home Office who had made the post- 


i 84 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

mortem examination, and who was much too great a 
man to be kept waiting while other witnesses of more 
importance to the case but of less personal consequence 
went into the box. Dr. Slingsby stated that his examina- 
tions had revealed that death had been caused by a bul- 
let wound which had penetrated the left lung, causing 
internal hemorrhage. 

Mr. Finnis, the junior counsel for the defence, sug- 
gested to the witness that the wound might have been 
self-inflicted, but Dr. Slingsby permitted himself to be 
positive that such was not the case. With professional 
caution he assured Mr. Finnis, who briefly cross-examined 
him, that it was impossible for him to state how long Sir 
FTorace Fewbanks had been dead. Rigor mortis , in the 
case of the human body, set in from eight to ten hours 
after death, and it was between three and four o’clock in 
the afternoon of the day the crime was discovered that he 
first saw the corpse. The body was quite stiff and cold 
then. 

“Is it not possible for death to have taken place nine- 
teen or twenty hours before you saw the body?” asked 
Mr. Finnis, eagerly. 

“Quite possible,” replied Dr. Slingsby. 

“Is it not also possible, from the state of the body 
when you examined it, that death took place within six- 
teen hours of your examination of the body?” asked Mr. 
Walters, as Mr. Finnis sat down with the air of a man 
who had elicited an important point. 

“Quite possible,” replied Dr. Slingsby, with the prim 
air of a professional man who valued his reputation too 
highly to risk it by committing himself to anything 
definite. 

Dr. Slingsby was allowed to leave the box, and In- 
spector Chippenfield took his place. Inspector Chip- 
penfield did not display any professional reticence 
about giving his evidence — at least, not on the surface, 
though he by no means took the court completely into 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 185 

his confidence as to all that had passed between him and 
Hill. On the other hand he told the judge and jury 
everything that his professional experience prompted 
him as necessary and proper for them to know in order 
to bring about a conviction. In the course of his evi- 
dence he made several attempts to introduce damaging 
facts as to Birchill’s past, but Mr. Holymead protested to 
the judge. Counsel for the defence protested that he 
had allowed his learned friend in opening the case a 
great deal of latitude as to the relations which had pre- 
viously existed between the witness Hill and the pris- 
oner, because the defence did not intend to attempt to 
hide the fact that the prisoner had a criminal record, 
but he had no intention of allowing a police witness to 
introduce irrelevant matter in order to prejudice the jury 
against the prisoner. His Honour told the witness to 
confine himself to answering the questions put to him, 
and not to volunteer information. 

After this rebuke Inspector Chippenfield resumed 
giving evidence. He related what Birchill had said when 
arrested, and declared that he was positive that the foot- 
prints found outside the kitchen window were made by 
the boots produced in court which Birchill had been wear- 
ing at the time he was arrested. He produced a jemmy 
which he had found at Fanning’s flat, and said that it 
fitted the marks on the window at Riversbrook which 
had been forced on the night of the 18th of August. 

Inspector Chippenfield’s evidence was followed by that 
of the two tramway employes, who declared that to 
the best of their belief Birchill was the man who 
boarded their tram at half-past nine on the night of the 
18th of August, and rode to the terminus at Hampstead, 
which they reached at 10.4 p. m. Both the witnesses 
showed a very proper respect for the law, and were 
obviously relieved when the brief cross-examination was 
over and they were free to go back to their tram-car. 


CHAPTER XVII 


“James Hill!” called the court crier. 

The butler stepped forward, mounted the witness- 
stand, and bowed his head deferentially towards the 
judge. He was neatly dressed in black, and his sandy- 
grey hair was carefully brushed. His face was as ex- 
pressionless as ever, but a slight oscillation of the Court 
Bible in his right hand as he was sworn indicated that 
his nerves were not so calm as he strove to appear. He 
looked neither to the right nor left, but kept his glance 
downcast. Only once, as he stood there waiting to be 
questioned, did he cast a furtive look towards the man 
whose life hung on his evidence, but the malevolent vin- 
dictive gaze Birchill shot back at him caused him to 
lower his eyelids instantly. 

Hill commenced his evidence in a voice so low that 
Mr. Walters stopped him at the outset and asked him 
to speak in a louder tone. It soon became apparent that 
his evidence was making a deep impression on the court. 
Sir Henry Hodson listened to him intently, and watched 
him keenly, as Hill, with impassive countenance and 
smooth even tones, told his strange story of the night 
of the murder. When he had drawn to a conclusion he 
gave another furtive glance at the dock, but Birchill was 
seated with his head bowed down, as though tired, and 
with one hand supporting his face. 

Mr. Walters methodically folded up his brief and sat 
down, with a sidelong glance in the direction of Mr. 
Holymead as he did so. Every eye in court was turned 
on Holymead as the great K.C. settled his gown on his 
shoulders and got up to cross-examine the principal 
Crown witness. 


1 86 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 187 

His cross-examination was the admiration of those 
spectators whose sympathies were on the side of the man 
in the dock as one of themselves. Hill was cross-exam- 
ined as to the lapse from honesty which had sent him to 
gaol, and he was reluctantly forced to admit, that so far 
from the theft being the result of an impulse to save 
his wife and child from starvation, as the Counsel for the 
prosecution had indicated, it was the result of the im- 
pulse of cupidity. He had robbed a master who had 
trusted him and had treated him with kindness. Hav- 
ing extracted this fact, in spite of Hill’s evasions and 
twistings, Holymead straightened himself to his full 
height, and, shaking a warning finger at the witness, 
said: 

“I put it to you, witness, that the reason Sir Horace 
Fewbanks engaged you as butler in his household at 
Riversbrook was because he knew you to be a man of 
few scruples, who would be willing to do things that 
a more upright honest man would have objected to?” 

“That is not true,” replied Hill. 

“Is it not true that your late master frequently enter- 
tained women of doubtful character at Riversbrook?” 
thundered the K.C. 

Hill gasped at the question. When he had first heard 
that his late master’s old friend, Mr. Holymead, was 
to appear for Birchill, he had immediately come to the 
conclusion that Mr. Holymead was taking up the case 
in order to save Sir Horace’s name from exposure by 
dealing carefully with his private life at Riversbrook. 
But here he was ruthlessly tearing aside the veil of 
secrecy. Hill hesitated. He glanced round the curious 
crowded court and saw the eager glances of the women 
as they impatiently awaited his reply. He hesitated so 
long that Holymead repeated the question. 

“Women of doubtful character?” faltered the wit- 
ness. “I do not understand you.” 

“You understand me perfectly well, Hill I do not 


i88 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


mean women off the streets, but women who have no 
moral reputation to maintain — women who do not mind 
letting confidential servants see that they have no re- 
gard for the conventional standards of life. I mean, wit- 
ness, that your late master frequently entertained at 
Riversbrook, women — I will not call them ladies — who 
were not particular at what hour they went home. Some- 
times one or more of them stayed all night, and you were 
entrusted with the confidential task of smuggling them 
out of the house without other servants knowing of their 
presence. Is not that so ?” 

“I — I ” 

"Answer the question without equivocation, witness.” 

“Y-es, sir.” 

There was a slight stir in the body of the court due 
to the fact that Miss Fewbanks and Mrs. Holymead had 
risen and were making their way to the door. The 
fashionably-dressed women in the court stared with much 
interest at the daughter of the murdered man, whom 
most of them knew, in order to see how she was taking 
the disclosures about her dead father's private life. 

"And sometimes there were quarrels between your 
late master and these visitors, were there not ?” continued 
Holymead. 

"Quarrels, sir?” 

"Surely you know that under the influence of wine 
some people become quarrelsome?” 

"Yes, sir.” 

"Well, did your late master's nocturnal visitors ever 
become quarrelsome?” 

"Sometimes, sir.” 

"In the exercise of your confidential duties did you 
sometimes see quarrelsome ladies off the premises ?” 

"Sometimes, sir.” 

"And it was no uncommon thing for them to say 
things to you about your master, eh ?” 

"Sometimes they didn’t care what they said.” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 189 

“Quite so,” commented Counsel drily. “They indulged 
in threats?” 

“Not all of them,” replied Hill, who at length saw 
where the cross-examination was tending. 

“I do not suggest that all of them did — only that the 
more violent of them did so.” 

“Quite so, sir.” 

“So we may take it that the quarrel between your late 
master and Miss Fanning was not the only quarrel of 
the kind which came under your notice?” 

“There were not many others,” said Hill. 

“It was not the only one ?” persisted Counsel. 

“No, sir.” 

“In your evidence-in-chief you said nothing about Miss 
Fanning using threats against your master when you 
were showing her out ?” 

“No, sir.” 

“She did not use any?” 

“Not in my hearing, sir.” 

There was a pause at this stage while Mr. Holymead 
consulted the notes he had made of Mr. Walters’s cross- 
examination of the witness. 

“What o’clock was it when you left Riversbrook on 
the 18th of August after your master’s return from Scot- 
land?” 

“About half-past seven, sir.” 

“And what time did Sir Horace arrive home?” 

“About seven o’clock, sir.” 

“What were you doing between seven and seven- 
thirty ?” 

“I unpacked his bags and got his bedroom ready. I 
took him some refreshment up to the library.” 

“And he told you he wouldn’t want you again until 
the following night about eight o’clock?” 

“Yes, sir. He said he thought he would be going back 
to Scotland by the night express, and I was to get his 
bag packed and lock up the house.” 


190 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


“You told Counsel for the prosecution in the course 
of your evidence that you were afraid of Birchill,” con- 
tinued Holymead. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Were you afraid of physical violence from him, or 
only that he would expose your past to the other ser- 
vants ?” 

“I was afraid of him both ways,” said Hill. 

“Was it because of this fear that you made out for 
him a plan of Riversbrook to assist him in the bur- 
glary?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“When did you make out this plan?” 

“The day after Sir Horace left for Scotland.” 

“Was that on your first visit to Miss Fanning’s flat 
in Westminster after the prisoner had sent her to Rivers- 
brook to tell you he wanted to see you?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Did Birchill stand over you while you made out this 
plan ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Would you know the plan again if you saw it?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Mr. Finnis, who had been hiding the plan under the 
papers before him, handed a document up to his chief. 

Mr. Holymead unfolded it, and with a brief glance at it 
handed it up to the witness. 

“Is that the plan ?” he asked. 

Hill was somewhat taken aback at the production of 
the plan. It was drawn in ink on a white sheet of 
paper of foolscap size, with a slightly bluish tint. The 
paper was by no means clean, for Birchill had- carried 
it about in his pocket. The witness reluctantly admitted 
that the plan was the one he had given to Birchill. To 
his manifest relief Counsel asked no further questions 
about it. In a low tone Mr. Holymead formally expressed 
his intention to put the plan in as evidence. He handed 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


191 

it to Mr. Walters, who, after a close inspection of it, 
passed it along to the judge’s Associate for His Honour’s 
inspection. 

The rest of Hill’s cross-examination concerned what 
happened at the flat on the night of the burglary. He 
adhered to the story he had told, and could not be shaken 
in the main points of it. But Mr. Holymead made 
some effective use of the discrepancy between the wit- 
ness’s evidence at the inquest as to his movements on 
the night of the murder and his evidence in court. He 
elicited the fact that the police had discovered his evi- 
dence at the inquest was false and had forced him to 
make a confession by threatening to arrest him for the 
murder. 

Mr. Holymead signified that he had nothing further to 
ask the witness, and Mr. Walters called his last witness, 
a young man named Charley Ryder, a resident of 
Liverpool, who had spent a week’s holiday in London 
from the 14th to the 21st of August. Ryder had stayed 
with some friends at Hampstead, and when making his 
way home on the night of the 18th of August had walked 
down Tanton Gardens in the belief that he was taking a 
short cut. The time was about 11.20. He saw a man 
running towards him along the footpath from the direc- 
tion of Riversbrook. He caught a good glimpse of the 
man, who seemed to be very excited. He was sure 
the prisoner was the man he had seen. In cross-exam- 
ination by Mr. Holymead he was far less positive in his 
identification of the prisoner, and finally admitted that 
the man he saw that night might be somebody else who 
resembled the prisoner in build. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


The second day of the trial began promptly when 
Mr. Justice Hodson took his seat. Mr. Holymead’s open- 
ing statement to the jury was brief. He reminded them 
that the life of a fellow creature rested on their verdict. 
If there was any doubt in their minds whether the pris- 
oner had fired the shot which killed Sir Horace Few- 
banks the prisoner was entitled to a verdict of “not 
guilty.” It was obligatory on the prosecution to prove 
guilt beyond all reasonable doubt. 

He submitted that the prosecution had not established 
their case. After hearing the case for the prosecution the 
jury must have grave doubts as to the guilt of the pris- 
oner, and it was his duty as Counsel for the prisoner to 
put before the jury facts which would not only increase 
their doubts but bring them to the positive conclusion that 
the prisoner was not guilty. He was not going to attempt 
to deny that the prisoner went to Riversbrook on the night 
of the murder. He went there to commit a burglary. 
But so far from Hill being terrorised into complicity in 
that crime it was he who had first suggested it to Birchill 
and had arranged it. Material evidence on that point 
would be submitted to the jury. 

Hill was a man who was incapable of gratitude. His 
disposition was to bite the hand that fed him. After being 
well treated by Sir Horace Fewbanks he had made up his 
mind to rob him as he had robbed his former master Lord 
Melhurst. He knew that Sir Horace had quarrelled with 
this girl Fanning because of her association with Birchill, 
and he went to Birchill and put before him a proposal to 
rob Riversbrook. Birchill consented to the plan, and when 
on the night of the 18th August he broke into the house 
he found the murdered body of Sir Horace in the 
192 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


193 


library. That was the full extent of the prisoner’s con- 
nection with the crime. To the superficial and suspicious 
mind it might seem an improbable story, but to an ear- 
nest mind it was a story that carried conviction because 
of its simple straightforwardness — its crudity, if the 
jury liked to call it that. It lacked the subtlety and the 
finish of a concocted story. The murder took place be- 
fore Birchill reached Riversbrook on his burglarious 
errand. 

“It is my place,” added Mr. Holymead, in concluding 
his address, “to convince you that my client is not guilty, 
or, in other words, to convince you that the murder 
was committed before he reached the house. It is only 
with the greatest reluctance that I take upon myself the 
responsibility of pointing an accusing finger at another 
man. In crimes of this kind you cannot expect to get 
anything but circumstantial evidence. But there are 
degrees of circumstantial evidence, and my duty to my 
client lays upon me the obligation of pointing out to 
you that there is one person against whom the existing 
circumstantial evidence is stronger than it is against my 
client.” 

Crewe, who had secured his former place in the gal- 
lery of the court, looked down on the speaker. He had 
carefully followed every word of Holymead’s address, 
but the concluding portion almost electrified him. He 
flattered himself that he was the only person in court 
who understood the full significance of the sonorous sen- 
tences with which the famous K.C. concluded his address 
to the jury. 

As his eyes wandered over the body of the court be- 
low, Crewe saw that Mrs. Holymead and Mademoiselle 
Chiron were sitting in one of the back seats, but that 
they were not accompanied by Miss Fewbanks. It was 
evident to him by the way in which Mrs. Holymead 
followed the proceedings that her interest in the case 
was something far deeper than wifely interest in her 


194 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


husband's connection with it as counsel for the defence. 
Leaning forward in her seat, with her hands clasped in 
her lap, she listened eagerly to every word. During 
the day his gaze went back to her at intervals, and on 
several occasions he became aware that she had been 
watching him while he watched her husband. 

The first witness for the defence was Doris Fanning. 
The drift of her evidence was to exonerate the prisoner 
at the expense of Hill. She declared that she had not 
gone to Riversbrook to see Hill after the final quarrel 
with Sir Horace. Hill had come to her flat in West- 
minster of his own accord and had asked for Birchill. 
She went out of the room while they discussed their 
business, but after Hill had gone Birchill told her that 
Hill had put up a job for him at Riversbrook. Birchill 
showed her the plan of Riversbrook that Hill had made, 
and asked her if it was correct as far as she knew. Yes, 
she was sure she would know the plan again if she 
saw it. 

The judge's Associate handed it to Mr. Holymead, who 
passed it to the witness. 

“Is this it ?" he asked. 

“Yes," she replied emphatically, almost without in- 
specting it. 

“I want you to look at it closely," said Counsel. “When 
Birchill showed you the plan immediately after Hill’s 
departure, what impression did you get regarding it?" 

She looked at him blankly. 

“I don’t understand you," she said. 

“You can tell the difference between ink that has been 
newly used and ink that has been on the paper some 
days. Was the ink fresh?" 

“No, it was old ink," she said. 

“How do you know that?" 

“Because ink doesn’t go black till a long while after it 
is written. At least, the letters I write don’t." She shot 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


195 

a veiled coquettish glance at the big K.C. from under her 
long eyelashes. 

The K.C. returned the glance with a genial smile. 

“What do you write your letters on, Miss Fanning ?” 

She almost giggled at the question. 

“I use a writing tablet/’ she replied. 

“Ruled or unruled?” 

“Ruled. I couldn’t write straight if there weren’t 
lines.” She smiled again. 

“And what colour do you affect — grey, rose-pink or 
white paper?” 

“Always white.” 

“Is that all the paper you have at your flat for writing 
purposes ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then what did Birchill write on when he wanted to 
write a letter?” 

“He used mine.” 

“Are you sure of that?” 

“Yes. When he wanted to write a letter he used to ask 
me for my tablet and an envelope. And generally he 
used to borrow a stamp as well.” She pouted slightly, 
with another coquettish glance. 

“Look at that plan again,” said the K.C. “Have you 
ever had paper like it at your flat?” 

She shook her head. 

“Never.” 

“Have you ever seen paper of that kind in Birchill’s 
possession before he showed you the plan?” 

“Never.” 

“When he showed you the plan had the paper been 
folded?” 

“Yes.” 

The K.C. took the witness, now very much at her 
ease, to the night of the murder. She denied strenu- 
ously that Hill tried to dissuade Birchill from carrying 
out the burglary because Sir Horace Fewbanks had re- 
turned unexpectedly from Scotland. It was Birchill who 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


196 

suggested postponing the burglary until Sir Horace left, 
but Hill urged that the original plan should be adhered 
to. He declared that Sir Horace would remain at home 
at least a fortnight, and perhaps longer. His master 
was a sound sleeper, he said, and if Birchill waited until 
he went to bed there would be no danger of awakening 
him. She contradicted many details of Hill’s evidence as 
to what took place when the prisoner returned from 
breaking into Riversbrook. It was untrue, she said, that 
there was a spot of blood on Birchill’s face or that his 
hands were smeared with blood. He was a little bit ex- 
cited when he returned, but after one glass of whisky 
he spoke quite calmly of what had happened. 

The next witness was a representative of the firm of 
Holmes and Jackson, papermakers, who was handed the 
plan of Riversbrook which Hill had drawn. He stated 
that the paper on which the plan was drawn was manu- 
factured by his firm, and supplied to His Majesty’s 
Stationery Office. He identified it by the quality of 
the paper and the watermark. In reply to Mr. Walters 
the witness was sure that the paper he held in his 
hand had been manufactured by his firm for the Govern- 
ment. It was impossible for him to be mistaken. Other 
firms might manufacture paper of a somewhat similar 
quality and tint, but it would not be exactly similar. 
Besides, he identified it by his firm’s watermark, and 
he held the plan up to the light and pointed it out to 
the court. 

Counsel for the defence called two more witnesses 
on this point — one to prove that supplies of the paper 
on which the plan was drawn were issued to legal de- 
partments of the Government, and an elderly man named 
Cobb, Sir Horace Fewbanks’s former tipstaff, who stated 
that he took some of the paper in question to Rivers- 
brook on Sir Horace’s instructions. And then, to the 
astonishment of junior members of the bar who were 
in court watching his conduct of the case in order 
to see if they could pick up a few hints, he intimated 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


197 

that his case was closed. It seemed to them that the 
great K.C. had put up a very flimsy case for the de- 
fence, and that in spite of the fact that the prosecutor’s 
case rested mainly on the evidence of a tainted witness 
Holymead would be very hard put to it to get his man 
off. 

“Isn’t my learned friend going to call the prisoner?” 
suggested Mr. Walters, with the cunning design of giv- 
ing the jury something to think of when they were 
listening to his learned friend’s address. 

“It’s scarcely necessary,” said Mr. Holymead, who saw 
the trap, and replied in a tone which indicated that the 
matter was not worth a moment’s consideration. 

He began his address to the jury by emphasising the 
fact that a fellow creature’s life depended on the result 
of their deliberations. The duty that rested upon them 
of saying whether the prosecution had established beyond 
all reasonable doubt that the prisoner shot Sir Horace 
Fewbanks was a solemn and impressive one. He asked 
them to consider the case carefully in all its bearings. He 
could not claim for his client that he was a man of 
spotless reputation. The prisoner belonged to a class 
who earned their living by warring against society. But 
that fact did not make him a murderer. On what did the 
case for the prosecution rest? On the evidence of Hill 
and three other witnesses who, on the night of the murder, 
had seen a man somewhat resembling the prisoner in the 
vicinity of Riversbrook, or making towards the vicinity of 
that house. But so far from wishing to emphasise the 
weakness of identification he admitted that the prisoner 
went to Riversbrook with the intention of committing a 
burglary. 

“We admit that he went there the night Sir Horace 
Fewbanks returned from Scotland,” he continued. 
“Counsel for the prosecution will make the most of those 
admissions in the course of his address to you, but the 
point to which I wish to direct your attention is that 
we make this damaging admission so that you may de- 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


198 


cide between the prisoner and the man who led him 
into a trap by instigating the burglary. Now we come 
to the evidence of Hill. I know you will not convict 
a man of murder on the unsupported evidence of a fellow 
criminal. But I want to point out to you that even if 
Hill’s evidence were true in every detail, even if Hill 
had not swerved one iota from the truth, there is nothing 
in his evidence to lead to the positive conclusion that 
the prisoner murdered Hill’s master, Sir Horace Few- 
banks. What does Hill’s evidence against the prisoner 
amount to? Let us accept it for the moment as abso- 
lutely true. Later on I will show you plainly that the 
man is a liar, that he is a cunning scoundrel, and that 
his evidence is utterly unreliable. But accepting for the 
moment his evidence as true the case against the pris- 
oner amounts to this: by threats of exposure Birchill 
.compelled Hill to consent to Riversbrook being robbed 
while the owner was in Scotland. 

“Hill’s complicity, according to his own story, extended 
only to supplying a plan of the house and giving Birchill 
some information as to where various articles of value 
would be found. On the 18th of August Hill went to Riv- 
ersbrook to see that everything was in order for the bur- 
glary that night. While he was there his master returned 
unexpectedly. Hill then went to the flat in Westminster 
and told Birchill that Sir Horace had returned. His own 
story is that he tried to get Birchill to abandon the idea of 
the burglary, but that Birchill, who had been drinking, 
swore that he would carry out the plan, and that if he 
came across Sir Horace he would shoot him. What 
grudge had Birchill against Sir Horace Fewbanks? The 
fact that Sir Horace had discarded the woman Fanning 
because of her association with Birchill. Gentlemen, does 
a man commit a murder for a thing of that kind? 

“Let us test the credibility of the man who has tried 
to swear away the life of the prisoner. You saw him 
in the witness-box, and I have no doubt formed your 
own conclusions as to the type of man he is. Did he 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


199 


strike you as a man who would stand by the truth above 
all things, or a man who would lie persistently in order 
to save his own skin? That the man cannot be believed 
even when on his oath has been publicly demonstrated 
in the courts of the land. The story he told the court 
yesterday in the witness-box of his movements on the 
day of the murder is quite different to the story he told 
on his oath at the inquest on the body of Sir Horace 
Fewbanks. Let me read to you the evidence he gave 
at the inquest.” 

Mr. Finnis handed to his leader a copy of Hill's evi- 
dence at the inquest, and Mr. Holymead read it out to the 
jury. He then read out a shorthand writer’s account 
of Hill’s evidence on the previous day. 

“Which of these accounts are we to believe?” he said, 
turning to the jury. “The latter one, the prosecution says. 
But why, I ask ? Because it tallies with the statement ex- 
torted from Hill by the police under the threat of charg- 
ing him with the murder. Does that make it more cred- 
ible? Is a man like Hill, who is placed in that position, 
likely to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing 
but the truth? It is an insult to the jury as men of 
intelligence to ask you to believe Hill’s evidence. I do not 
ask you to believe the story he told at the inquest in 
preference to the story he told here in the witness-box 
yesterday. I ask you to regard both stories as the evi- 
dence of a man who is too deeply implicated in this 
crime to be able to speak the truth. 

“I will prove to you, gentlemen of the jury, that the 
man is a criminal by instinct and a liar by necessity — 
the necessity of saving his own skin. He robbed his 
former master, Lord Melhurst, and he planned to rob 
his late master, Sir Horace Fewbanks. But knowing 
that his former crime would be brought against him 
when the police came to investigate a robbery at Rivers- 
brook he was too cunning to rob Riversbrook himself. 
He looked about him for an accomplice and he selected 
Birchill. You heard him say in the witness-box that 


200 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


he drew Birchill a plan of Riversbrook — the plan I now 
hold in my hand. I will ask yon to inspect the plan 
closely. Hill told us that Birchill terrorised him into 
drawing this plan by threats of exposure. Exposure of 
what? His master, Sir Horace Fewbanks, knew he had 
been in gaol, so what had he to fear from exposure? 
His proper course, if he were an honest man, would 
have been to tell his master that Birchill was planning 
to rob the house and had endeavoured to draw him 
into the crime. But he did nothing of the kind, for 
the simple reason that the plan to rob Riversbrook was 
his own, and not Birchill’s. 

“Now, gentlemen, you have all seen the plan which 
this tainted witness declares was drawn by him be- 
cause Birchill terrorised him and stood over him while 
he drew it. Is there anything in that plan to suggest 
that it was drawn by a man in a state of nervous terror ? 
Why, the lines are as firmly drawn as if they had been 
made by an architect working at his leisure in his office. 
Was this plan drawn by a man in a state of nervous 
terror with his tormentor standing threateningly over 
him, or was it drawn up by a man working at leisure, 
free not only from terror but from interruption? The 
answer to that question is supplied in the evidence given 
by three witnesses as to the paper used. Hill says the 
plan was drawn at the flat. Two other witnesses' swore 
that it was paper supplied exclusively for Government 
Departments, and another witness swore that he had 
taken such paper to Riversbrook for the use of Sir 
Horace Fewbanks, who, like every one of His Majesty’s 
judges, found it necessary to do some of his judicial 
work at home. What is the inevitable inference? I 
ask you if you can have any doubt, after looking at 
that plan and after hearing the evidence given to-day 
about the paper, that the proposal to rob Riversbrook 
was Hill’s own proposal, that Hill drew a plan of the 
house on paper he abstracted from his master’s desk — • 
paper which this confidential servant was apparently in 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


201 


the habit of using for private purposes — and that he gave 
it to Birchill when he asked Birchill to join him in the 
crime ? 

“When one of the main features of Hill’s story is 
proved to be false, how can you believe any of the 
rest? In the light in which we now see him, with his 
cunning exposed, what significance is to be attached 
to his statement that Birchill in his presence threatened 
to shoot Sir Horace Fewbanks if the master of Rivers- 
brook interfered with him ? Such a threat was not made, 
but why should Hill say it was made? For the same 
reason that he lied about the plan — to save his own 
skin. I submit to you, gentlemen, that when Hill went 
to see Birchill at the Westminster flat on the night ar- 
ranged for the burglary Sir Horace Fewbanks was dead 
— murdered — and that Hill knew he was murdered. His 
own story is that he tried to persuade Birchill to abandon 
the proposed burglary, but, according to the witness 
Fanning, he did all in his power to induce Birchill to 
carry out the original plan when he saw that Birchill 
was disposed to postpone the burglary in view of the 
return of the master of Riversbrook. Why did he want 
Birchill to carry out the burglary? Because he knew 
that his master’s murdered body was lying in the house, 
and he wanted to be in the position to produce evidence 
against Birchill as the murderer if he found himself in 
a tight corner as the result of the subsequent investiga- 
tions of the police. Remember that the body of the 
victim was fully dressed when it was discovered by the 
police, and that none of the electric lights were burning. 
Does not that prove conclusively that the murder was 
not committed by Birchill, that Sir Horace Fewbanks 
was dead when Birchill broke into the house? 

“Birchill, an experienced criminal, would not break 
into the house while there was anybody moving about. 
He would wait until the house was in darkness and the 
inmates asleep. To do otherwise would increase enor- 
mously the risks of capture. But the fact that the 


202 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


police found the body of the murdered man fully dressed 
shows that Sir Horace was murdered before he went to 
bed — before Birchill broke into the house. It shows con- 
clusively that the murder was committed before dusk. 
Your only alternatives to that conclusion are that the 
murdered man went to bed with his clothes on, or that 
the murderer broke into the house before Sir Horace had 
gone to bed and after killing Sir Horace went coolly 
round the house turning out the lights instead of fleeing 
in terror at his deed without even waiting to collect any 
booty. I am sure that as reasonable men you will reject 
both these alternatives as absurd. No evidence has been 
produced to show that anything has been stolen from the 
place. It was evidently the theory of the prosecution 
that the prisoner, after shooting Sir Horace, had fled. 
The evidence of Hill was that he arrived at Fanning’s flat 
in a state of great excitement. His excitement would be 
consistent with his story of having discovered the body 
of a murdered man, but not consistent with the conduct 
of a cold-blooded calculating murderer who had broken 
into the house before Sir Horace had undressed for bed, 
had shot him, and had then gone round the house turning 
out the lights without having any apparent object in 
doing so. 

“Gentlemen, I think you will admit that the crime 
must have been committed before dusk; before any 
lights were turned on. I do not ask you to say that Hill 
is guilty. The responsibility of saying what man other 
than the prisoner shot Sir Horace Fewbanks does not rest 
with you. But I do urge you to ask yourselves whether, 
as between Hill and the prisoner, the probability of 
guilt is not on the side of this witness who lied to the 
coroner’s court about his movements on the night of the 
murder, and who lied to this court about the plan for 
the robbery of Riversbrook. I have shown you that 
Hill was the master mind in planning the burglary, and, 
that being so, would not Birchill have consented to the 
postponement of the burglary if Hill had urged him to dp 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


203 


so when he visited the flat after the unexpected return 
of the master of Riversbrook? Is not the evidence of the 
witness Fanning, that Hill urged Birchill to carry out 
the burglary after Sir Horace had gone to sleep, more 
credible than Hill’s statement that he endeavoured to 
induce Birchill to abandon the proposed crime ? Knowing 
what you know of Hill’s past as a man who will rob his 
master, knowing that he attempted to deceive you with 
regard to this plan of Riversbrook in order that you 
might play your part in his cunning scheme, I urge you 
to ask yourselves whether it is not more probable that 
Hill fired the shot which killed Sir Horace Fewbanks 
than that the prisoner did so. Is it not extremely prob- 
able that the unexpected return of Sir Horace upset 
Hill, who was giving a final look round the house before 
the burglary took place ? That, instead of answering his 
master with the suave obsequious humility of the well- 
trained servant, he revealed the baffled ferocity of a crim- 
inal whose carefully arranged plan seemed to have mis- 
carried; that his master angrily rebuked him, and Hill, 
losing control of himself, sprang at Sir Horace, and the 
struggle ended with Hill drawing a revolver and shoot- 
ing his master? 

“The rest of the story from that point can be con- 
structed without difficulty. The murderer’s first thought 
was to divert suspicion from himself, and the best way 
to do that was to divert suspicion elsewhere. He locked 
up the house and went to see Birchill. He urged Birch- 
ill to break into Riversbrook, in which the dead body of 
the murdered man lay. It is true that he need not have 
told Birchill that Sir Horace had returned unexpectedly ; 
but his object in doing so was to make Birchill search 
about the house until he inadvertently stumbled across 
the dead body. Had Birchill been under the impression 
that he had broken into an entirely empty house he 
would have collected the valuables and might not have 
entered the library in which the dead body lay. It was 
necessary for Hill’s purpose that Birchill should come 


204 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


across the corpse ; then he would be vitally interested in 
diverting suspicion from himself (Birchill) and that is 
why he cunningly revealed to Birchill that Sir Horace 
had returned. I put it to the jury that such is a more 
probable explanation of how Sir Horace met his death 
than that he was shot down by Birchill. I ask you again 
to remember that the body was fully dressed when it was 
found by the police. I put it to you that in this matter 
the prisoner walked into a trap prepared by his more 
cunning fellow criminal. And I urge you, with all the 
earnestness it is possible for a man to use when the 
life of a fellow creature is at stake, not to be led into 
a trap— not to play the part this cunning criminal Hill 
has designed for you — in the sacrifice of the life of an 
innocent man for the purpose of saving himself from his 
just deserts. Looking at the whole case — as you will 
not fail to do — with the breadth of view of experienced 
men of the world, with some knowledge of the workings 
of human nature, with a natural horror of the depths 
of cunning of which some natures are capable, with a 
deep sense of the solemn responsibility for a human life 
upon you, I confidently appeal to you to say that the 
prisoner was not the man who shot Sir Horace Few- 
banks, and to bring in a verdict of ‘not guilty/ ” 

A short discussion arose between the bench and bar 
on the question of adjourning the court or continuing 
the case in the hope of finishing it in a few hours. Sir 
Henry Hodson wanted to finish the case that night, but 
Counsel for the prosecution intimated that his address to 
the jury would take nearly two hours. As it was then 
nearly five o'clock, and His Honour had to sum up before 
the jury could retire, it was hardly to be hoped that the 
case could be finished that night, as the jury might be some 
time in arriving at a verdict. His Honour decided to 
adjourn the court and finish the case next day. 


CHAPTER XIX 


Mr. Walters began his address to the jury on 
orthodox lines. He referred to the fact that his learned 
friend had warned them that the life of a fellow creature 
rested on their verdict. It was right that they should keep 
that in mind; it was right that they should fully realise 
the responsible nature of the duty they were called 
upon to perform, but it would be wrong for them to 
over-estimate their responsibility, or to feel weighed 
down by it. It would be wrong for them to be influ- 
enced by sentimental considerations of the fact that a 
fellow creature’s life was at stake. Strictly speaking, 
that had nothing whatever to do with them. Their 
responsibility ended with their verdict. If their verdict 
was “guilty” the responsibility of taking the prisoner’s 
life would rest upon the law — not on the jury, not on 
His Honour who passed the sentence of death, not on the 
prison officials who carried out the execution. The jury 
would do well to keep in mind the fact that their re- 
sponsibility in this trial, impressive and important as 
every one must acknowledge it to be, was nevertheless 
strictly limited as far as the taking of the life of the 
prisoner was concerned. 

He then went over the evidence in detail, building 
up again the case for the prosecution where Mr. Holy- 
mead had made breaches in it, and attempting to de- 
molish the case for the defence. Hill, he declared, was 
an honest witness. The man had made one false step 
but he had done his best to retrieve it, and with the 
help he had received from his late master, Sir Horace 
Fewbanks, he would have buried the past effectively if 
it had not been for the fact that the prisoner, who was 
a confirmed criminal, had determined to drag him down. 

205 


20 6 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


There was no doubt that Hill’s association with Birchill 
had been unfortunate for him. It had dragged his past 
into the light of day, and he stood before them a ruined 
man. He had tried to live down the past, and but for 
Birchill he would have succeeded in doing so. But now 
no one would employ him as a house servant after the 
revelations that had been made in this court. They 
had seen Hill in the witness-box, and he would ask 
the jury whether he looked like the masterful cunning 
scoundrel which the defence had described, or a weak 
creature who would be easily led by a man of strong 
will, such as the prisoner was. 

As to what took place at the flat, they had a choice 
between the evidence of Hill and the evidence of the girl 
Fanning. Hill had told them that he had tried to dissuade 
the prisoner from going to Riversbrook to burgle the 
premises, because his master had returned unexpectedly ; 
Fanning had told them that the prisoner was in favour 
of postponing the crime, but that Hill had urged him 
to carry it out. Which story was the more probable? 
What reliance could they place on the evidence of 
Fanning? He did not wish to say that the witness 
was utterly vicious and incapable of telling the truth — 
a description that the defence had applied to Hill — but 
they must take into consideration the fact that Fanning 
was the prisoner’s mistress. Was it likely that a woman, 
knowing her lover’s life was at stake, would come here 
and speak the truth, if she knew the truth would hang 
him? He was sure that the jury, as men who knew 
the world thoroughly, would not hesitate between the 
evidence of Hill and that of Fanning. 

The case for the defence depended to a great extent 
on the plan of Riversbrook which Hill candidly ad- 
mitted he had drawn. His learned friend had called 
evidence to show that the paper on which the plan was 
drawn was of a quality which was not procurable by the 
general public. That might be so, but what his learned 
friend had not succeeded in doing, and could not possibly 


THE HAMPSTEAQ MYSTERY 


207 


have hoped to succeed in doing, was to show that 
Birchill could not have obtained possession in any other 
way of paper of that kind. Yet it was necessary for 
the defence to prove that, in order to prove that the 
plan was not drawn at Fanning’s flat by Hill under 
threats from Birchill, but that Hill had drawn it at 
Riversbrook, and that he gave it to Birchill in order 
to induce him to consent to the proposal to break into 
the house. There were dozens of ways in which paper 
of this particular quality might have got to the flat. 
Might not Birchill have a friend in His Majesty’s Sta- 
tionery Office? Was it impossible that the witness Fan- 
ning had a friend in that Office, or in one of the Govern- 
ment Departments to which the paper was supplied? 
Was it impossible in view of her relations with the 
victim of this crime for Fanning to have obtained some 
of the paper at Riversbrook and to have taken it home 
to her flat? She had sworn in the witness-box that 
she had not had paper of that kind in her possession, 
but with her lover’s life at stake was she likely to stick 
at a lie if it would help to get him off? 

Counsel for the defence had endeavoured to make 
much of the fact that the dead body of Sir Horace 
Fewbanks was fully dressed when the police discovered 
it. He endeavoured to persuade them that such a fact 
established the complete innocence of the prisoner 
and that because of it they must bring in a verdict 
of “not guilty.” He asked them to accept it as evidence 
not only that Sir Horace Fewbanks was dead when 
the prisoner broke into the house, but that he was 
dead when Hill left Riversbrook at 7.30 p. m. to meet 
Birchill at Fanning’s flat. With an ingenuity which did 
credit to his imagination, he put before them as his 
theory of the crime that a quarrel took place between 
Sir Horace Fewbanks and Hill at Riversbrook, that 
Hill shot his master and then went to Fanning’s flat so as 
to see that Birchill carried out the burglary as arranged, 
and at the same time found Sir Horace’s dead body, and 


208 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


thus directed suspicion to himself. The only support 
for this far-fetched theory was that the body when dis- 
covered by the police was fully dressed, and that none 
of the electric lights were burning. Counsel for the 
defence contended that these two facts established his 
theory that the murder was committed before dusk. They 
established nothing of the kind. There were half a dozen 
more credible explanations of these things than the one 
he asked the jury to accept. What mystery was there 
in a man being fully dressed in his own house at mid- 
night? The defence had been at great pains to show 
that Sir Horace Fewbanks was a man of somewhat 
irregular habits in his private life. Did not that sug- 
gest that he might have turned off the lights and gone 
to sleep in an arm-chair in the library with the intention 
of going out in an hour or two to keep an appointment? 
If he had an appointment — and his sudden and unex- 
pected return from Scotland would suggest that he had 
a secret and important appointment — he would be more 
likely to take a short nap in his chair than to undress 
and go to bed. Might not the prisoner, who was a 
bold and reckless man, have broken into the house 
when the lights were burning and his victim was awake 
and fully dressed? In that case what was to prevent 
his turning off the lights before leaving the house 
instead of leaving them burning to attract attention? 
What was to prevent the prisoner turning off the lights 
in order to convey the impression that the crime had 
been committed in daylight? 

“I want you to keep in mind, when arriving at your 
verdict, that there are certain material facts which have 
been admitted by the defence,” said Mr. Walters in 
concluding his address to the jury. “It has been ad- 
mitted that the prisoner was a party to a proposal to 
break into Riversbrook. As far as that goes, there is 
no suggestion that he walked into a trap. Whether 
he arranged the burglary and compelled Hill to help him, 
or whether Hill arranged it and sought out the pris- 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


209 

oner’s assistance is, after all, not very material. What is 
admitted is that the prisoner went to Riversbrook with 
the intention of committing a crime. It is admitted that 
he knew Sir Horace Fewbanks had returned home. In 
that case is it not reasonable to suppose that the prisoner 
would arm himself, I do not say with the definite intention 
of committing murder, but for the purpose of threatening 
Sir Horace if necessary in order to make good his escape? 
What is more likely than that Sir Horace heard the bur- 
glar in the house, crept upon him, and then tried to 
capture him? There was a struggle, and the prisoner, 
determined to free himself, drew his revolver and shot Sir 
Horace. Is not such a theory of the crime — that Sir 
Horace was shot while trying to capture the prisoner — 
more probable than the theory of the defence that Hill, 
the weak-willed, frightened-looking man you saw in the 
witness-box, was a masterful, cunning criminal who for 
some inexplicable reason had turned ferociously on the 
master who had befriended him and given him a fresh 
start in life, had killed him and left the body in the house, 
and had then managed to direct suspicion to the prisoner ? 
The theory of the defence does great credit to my learned 
friend’s imagination, but it is one which I am sure 
the jury will reject as too highly coloured. Looking at 
the plain facts of the case and dismissing from your 
minds the attempt to make them fit into a purely 
imaginative theory, I am sure that you will come to the 
conclusion that Sir Horace Fewbanks met his death 
at the hands of the prisoner.” 

The junior bar agreed that the case was one which 
might go either way. If they had possessed any money 
the betting market would have shown scarcely a shade 
of odds. Everything depended on the way the jury 
looked at the case, on the particular bits of evidence 
to which they attached most weight, on the view the most 
argumentative positive-minded members of the jury 
adopted, for they would be able to carry the others 
with them. In the opinion of the junior bar the sum- 


210 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


ming up of Mr. Justice Hodson would not help the 
jury very much in arriving at a verdict. There were 
some judges who summed up for or against a prisoner 
according to the view they had formed as to the pris- 
oner’s guilt or innocence. There were other judges who 
summed up so impartially and gave such even-balanced 
weight to the points against the prisoner and to the points 
in his favour, as to make on the minds of the jurymen the 
impression that the only way to arrive at a well-considered 
verdict was to toss a coin. Another type of judge con- 
veyed to the jury that the prosecution had established an 
unanswerable case, but the defence had shown equal skill 
in shattering it, and therefore he did not know on which 
side to make up his mind, and fortunately English legal 
procedure did not render it necessary for him to do 
so. The prisoner might be guilty and he might be in- 
nocent. Some of the jury might think one thing and 
the rest of the jury might think another. But it was 
the duty of the jury to come to an unanimous verdict. 
It did not matter if they looked at some things in dif- 
ferent ways, but their final decision must be the same. 

Mr. Justice Hodson belonged to the impartial, im- 
personal type of judge. He had no personal feelings 
or conviction as to the guilt or innocence of the pris- 
oner. It was for the jury to settle that point and it 
was his duty to assist them to the best of his ability. He 
went over his notes carefully and dealt with the evi- 
dence of each of the witnesses. It was for the jury 
to say what evidence they believed and what they dis- 
believed. There was a pronounced conflict of evidence 
between Hill and Fanning. They were the chief wit- 
nesses in the case, but the guilt or innocence of the 
prisoner did not rest entirely upon the evidence of either 
of these witnesses. Hill might be speaking the truth 
and the prisoner might be innocent though the pre- 
sumption would be, if Hill’s evidence were truthful in 
every detail, that the prisoner was guilty. Fanning’s 
evidence might be true as far as it went, but it would 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


21 1 


not in itself prove that the prisoner was innocent. Hill 
had admitted that he had drawn the plan of Riversbrook 
to assist Birchill to commit burglary. It was for the 
jury to determine for themselves whether he had been 
terrorised into drawing the plan for Birchill or whether 
he was the instigator of the burglary. 

The defence had contended that Hill had drawn the 
plan at his leisure at a time when he had access to a 
special quality of paper supplied to his master. If that 
were so, Hill’s version of how he came to draw the plan 
was deliberately false and had been concocted for the 
purpose of exculpating himself. But they would not be 
justified in dismissing Hill’s evidence entirely from their 
minds because they were satisfied he had perjured him- 
self with regard to the plan. They would be justified, 
however, in viewing the rest of his evidence with some 
degree of distrust. Counsel for the defence had made 
an ingenious use of the facts that the body of the victim 
was fully dressed when discovered and that none of the 
electric lights in the house were burning. These facts 
lent support to the idea that the murder was committed 
in daylight, but they by no means established the theory 
as unassailable. They did not establish the innocence 
of the prisoner, although to some extent they told in his 
favour. Counsel for the prosecution had put before 
them several theories to account for these two facts con- 
sistent with his contention that the murder had been com- 
mitted by the prisoner. The jury must give full con- 
sideration to these theories as well as to the theory of the 
defence. They were not called upon to say which theory 
was true except in so far as their opinions might be 
implied, in the verdict they gave. 

The defence, continued His Honour, was that Hill 
had committed the murder and had then decided to 
direct suspicion to the prisoner. If the jury acquitted 
the prisoner, their verdict would not necessarily mean 
that they endorsed the theory of the defence. It might 
mean that, but it might mean only that they were not 


212 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


satisfied that the prisoner had committed the murder. 
If the jury were convinced beyond all reasonable doubt 
that the prisoner had committed the murder, they must 
bring in a verdict of “guilty,” and if they were not satis- 
fied they must bring in a verdict of acquittal. 

The jury filed out of their apartment, and as they 
retired to consider their verdict the judge retired to 
his own room. The prisoner was removed from the 
dock and taken down the stairs out of sight. There was 
an immediate hum of voices in the court. Inspector Chip- 
penfield approached the table and whispered to Mr. Wal- 
ters. The latter nodded affirmatively and left the court 
room in company with Mr. Holymead. The sibilant 
sound of whispering voices died down after a few min- 
utes and then began the long tedious wait for the return 
of the jury. 

The occupants of the gallery, who had no difficulty 
in coming to an immediate decision on the guilt or in- 
nocence of the prisoner, could not understand what was 
keeping the jury away so long. They failed to under- 
stand the jury’s point of view. These gentlemen had sat 
in court for three days listening intently to proceedings 
concerning a matter in which their degree of personal 
interest was only a form of curiosity. And now the 
end of the case had been reached, except for the climax, 
which was in their control. To arrive at an immediate 
decision in a case that had occupied the court for three 
days would indicate they had no proper realisation of 
the responsibilities of their position. A verdict was a 
thing that had to be nicely balanced in relation to the 
evidence. Where the case against the prisoner was 
weak or overwhelmingly strong, the jury might arrive 
at a verdict with great speed as an indication that too 
much of their valuable time had already been wasted 
on the case. But where the evidence for and against 
the prisoner was fairly equal it behoved the jury to 
indicate by the time they took in arriving at their ver- 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


213 

diet that they had given the case the most careful con- 
sideration. 

Two hours and twenty minutes after the jury had 
retired, the prisoner was brought back into the dock. 
This was an indication that the jury had arrived at 
their verdict and were ready to deliver it. The prisoner 
looked worn and anxious, but he received encouraging 
smiles from his friends in the gallery. A minute later 
the judge entered the court and resumed his seat. The 
jury filed into court and entered the jury-box. Amid 
the noise of barristers resuming their seats and court 
officials gliding about, the judge's Associate called over 
the names of the jurymen. The suspense reached its 
climax as the Associate put the formal questions to the 
foreman whether the jury had agreed on their verdict. 

“What say you : guilty or not guilty ?” asked the Asso- 
ciate in a hard metallic voice in which there was no trace 
of interest in the answer. 

“Not guilty,” replied the foreman. 

There was a muffled cheer from the gallery, which was 
suppressed by the stentorian cry of the ushers, “Silence 
in the court!” 

“A pack of damned fools,” said the exasperated Inspec- 
tor Chippenfield. 

Rolfe understood that his chief referred to the jury, 
and he nodded the assent of a subordinate. 


CHAPTER XX 


“Hill has bolted!” 

Rolfe flung the words at Inspector Chippenfield in 
a tone which he was unable to divest entirely of satis- 
faction. “Fancy his being the guilty party after all,” 
he added, with the tone of satisfaction still more evident 
in his voice. “I often thought that he was our man, 
and that he was playing with you — I mean with us.” 

Inspector Chippenfield had betrayed surprise at the 
news by dropping his pen on the official report he was 
preparing. But it was in his usual tone of cold official 
superiority that he replied : 

“Do you mean that Hill, the principal witness in the 
Riversbrook murder trial, has disappeared from Lon- 
don ?” 

“Disappeared from London? Pie’s bolted clean out 
of the country by this time, I tell you ! Cleared out for 
good and left his unfortunate wife and child to starve.” 

“How have you learnt this, Rolfe ?” 

“His wife told me herself. I went to the shop this 
afternoon to have a few words with Hill and see how 
he felt after the way Holymead had gone for him 
at the trial. His wife burst out crying when she saw 
me, and she told me that her husband had cleared out 
last night after he came home from court. The hardened 
scoundrel took with him the few pounds of her savings 
which she kept in her bedroom, and had even emptied 
the contents of the till of the few shillings and coppers 
it contained. All he left were the half-pennies in the 
child’s money-box. He cleared out in the middle of 
the night after his wife had gone to bed. He left her 
a note telling her she must get along without him. I 
have the note here — his wife gave it to me.” 

214 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


215 


Rolfe took a dirty scrap of paper out of his pocket- 
book and laid it before Inspector Chippenfield. The 
paper was a half sheet torn from an exercise-book, and 
its contents were written in faint lead pencil. They 
read: 

“Dear Mary: 

“I have got to leave you. I have thought it out and 
this is the only thing to do. I am too frightened to stay 
after what took place in the court to-day. I’ll make a 
fresh start in some place where I am not known, and as 
soon as I can send a little money I will send for you 
and Daphne. Keep your heart up and it will be all right. 
Keep on the shop. 

“Your Loving Husband.” 

“The poor little woman is heartbroken,” continued 
Rolfe, when his superior officer had finished reading 
the note. “She wants to know if we cannot get her 
husband back for her. She says the shop won’t keep 
her and the child. Unless she can find her husband 
she’ll be turned into the streets, because she’s behind 
with the rent, and Hill’s taken every penny she’d put by.” 

“Then she’d better go to the workhouse,” retorted 
Inspector Chippenfield brutally. “We’d have something 
to do if Scotland Yard undertook to trace all the abscond- 
ing husbands in London. We can do nothing in the mat- 
ter, and you’d better tell her so.” 

Inspector Chippenfield handed back Hill’s note as 
he spoke. Rolfe eyed him in some surprise. 

“But surely you’re going to take out a warrant for 
Hill’s arrest?” he said. 

“Certainly not,” responded Inspector Chippenfield im- 
patiently. “I’ve already said that Scotland Yard has 
something more to do than trace absconding husbands. 
There’s nothing to prevent your giving a little of your 
private time to looking for him, Rolfe, if you feel so 
tender-hearted about the matter. But officially — no. I’m 
astonished at your suggesting such a thing.” 

“It isn’t that,” replied Rolfe, flushing a little, and 


21 6 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


speaking with slight embarrassment. “But surely after 
Hill’s flight you’ll apply for a warrant for his arrest on 
— the other ground.” 

“On what other ground ?” asked his chief coldly. 

“Why, on a charge of murdering Sir Horace Few- 
banks,” Rolfe burst out indignantly. “Doesn’t this 
flight point to his guilt?” 

“Not in my opinion.” Inspector Chippenfield’s voice 
was purely official. 

“Why, surely it does !” Rolfe’s glance at his chief in- 
dicated that there was such a thing as carrying official 
obstinacy too far. “This letter he left behind suggests 
his guilt, clearly enough.” 

“I didn’t notice that,” replied Inspector Chippenfield 
impassively. “Perhaps you’ll point out the passage to me, 
Rolfe.” 

Rolfe hastily produced the note again. 

“Look here !” — his finger indicated the place — “ T’m 
frightened to stay after what took place in the court 
to-day.’ Doesn’t that mean, clearly enough, that Hill 
realised the acquittal pointed to him as the murderer, 
and he determined to abscond before he could be ar- 
rested ?” 

“So that’s your way of looking at it, eh, Rolfe?” said 
Inspector Chippenfield quizzically. 

“Certainly it is,” responded Rolfe, not a little nettled 
by his chief’s contemptuous tone. “It’s as plain as a 
pikestaff that the jury acquitted Birchill because they 
believed Hill was guilty. Holymead made out too strong 
a case for them to get away from — Hill's lies about the 
plan and the fact that the body was fully dressed when 
discovered.” 

“You’re a young man, Rolfe,” responded Inspector 
Chippenfield in a tolerant tone, “but you’ll have to shed 
this habit of jumping impulsively to conclusions — and 
generally wrong conclusions — if you want to succeed 
in Scotland Yard. This letter of Hill’s only strength- 
ens my previous opinion that a damned muddle-headed 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


217 


jury let a cold-blooded murderer loose on the world 
when they acquitted Fred Birchill of the charge of shoot- 
ing Sir Horace Fewbanks. Why, man alive, Holymead 
no more believes Hill is guilty than I do. He set himself 
to bamboozle the jury and he succeeded. If he had to 
defend Hill to-morrow he >vould show the jury that Hill 
couldn’t have committed the murder and that it must have 
been committed by Birchill and no one else. He’s a clever 
man, far cleverer than Walters, and that is why I lost 
the case.” 

“He led Hill into a trap about the plan of Rivers- 
brook,” said Rolfe. “When I saw that Hill had been 
trapped on that point I felt we had lost the jury.” 

“Only because the jury were a pack of fools who 
knew nothing about evidence. Granted that Hill lied 
about the plan — that he drew it up voluntarily in his 
spare time to assist Birchill — it proves nothing. It 
doesn’t prove that Hill committed the murder. It only 
proves that Hill was going to share in the proceeds of 
the burglary; that he was a willing party to it. The 
one big outstanding fact in all the evidence, the fact 
that towered over all the others, is that Birchill broke 
into the house on the night Sir Horace Fewbanks was 
murdered. The defence made no attempt to get away 
from that fact because they could not do so. But 
Holymead vamped up all sorts of surmises and supposi- 
tions for the purpose of befogging the jury and getting 
their minds away from the outstanding feature of the 
case for the prosecution. We proved that Birchill was 
in the house on a criminal errand. What more could they 
expect us to prove? They couldn’t expect us to have a 
man looking through the window or hiding behind the 
door when the murder was committed. If we could 
get evidence of that kind we could do without juries. 
We could hang our man first and try him afterwards. 
I don’t think a verdict of acquittal from a befogged 
jury would do so much harm in such a case.” 


2l8 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


“You are still convinced that Birchill did it?” said 
Rolfe questioningly. 

“I have never wavered from that opinion,” said his 
superior. “If I had, this note of Hill’s would restore 
my conviction in Birchill’s guilt.” 

“Why, how do you make out that?” replied Rolfe 
blankly. 

“Hill says he’s clearing out of the country because 
he’s frightened. What’s he frightened of? His own 
guilty conscience and the long arm of the law? Not 
a bit of it! Hill’s an innocent man. If he had been 
guilty he’d never have stood the ordeal of the witness- 
box and the cross-examination. Hill’s cleared out be- 
cause he was frightened of Birchill.” 

“Of Birchill?” 

“Yes. Didn’t Birchill tell Hill, just before he set out 
for Riversbrook on the night of the murder, that if 
Hill played him false he’d murder him? Hill did play 
him false, not then, but afterwards, when he made 
his confession and Birchill was arrested for the murder 
in consequence. When Birchill was acquitted at the 
trial his first thought would be to wreak vengeance on 
Hill. A man with one murder on his soul would not 
be likely to hesitate about committing another. Hill 
knew this, and fled to save his life when Birchill was 
acquitted. That’s the explanation of his letter, Rolfe.” 

“So that’s the way you look at it?” said Rolfe. 

“Of course I do! It’s the only way Hill’s flight can be 
looked at in the light of all that’s happened. The theory 
dovetails in every part. I’m more used than you to put- 
ting these things together, Rolfe. Hill’s as innocent of 
the murder as you are.” 

“And where do you think Hill’s gone to?” 

“Certainly not out of London. He’s too much of a 
Cockney for that. Besides, he’s a man who is fond of 
his wife and child. He’s hiding somewhere close at 
hand, and I shouldn’t wonder if the whole thing’s a plant 
between him and his wife. Have you forgotten how 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


219 


she tried to hoodwink us before? I’ll go to the 
shop to-morrow and see if I can’t frighten the truth 
out of her. Meanwhile, you’d better put the Camden 
Town police on to watching the shop. If he’s hiding 
in London he’s bound to visit his wife sooner or later, 
or she’ll visit him, so we ought not to have much 
difficulty in getting on to his tracks again.” 

Rolfe departed, to do his chief’s bidding, a little crest- 
fallen. He was at first inclined to think that he had 
made a bit of a fool of himself in his desire to prove 
to Inspector Chippenfield that he had been hoodwinked 
by Hill into arresting Birchill. But that night, as he 
sat in his bedroom smoking a quiet pipe, and re- 
viewing this latest phase of the puzzling case, the earlier 
doubts which had assailed him on first learning of Hill’s 
flight recurred to him with increasing force. If Hill 
were innocent he would have been more likely to seek 
police protection before flight. Hill’s flight was hardly 
the action of an innocent man. It pointed more to a 
guilty fear of his own skin, now that the man he had 
accused of the murder was free to seek vengeance. 
Chippenfield’s theory seemed plausible enough at first 
sight, but Rolfe now recalled that he knew nothing of 
the missing letters and Hill’s midnight visit to Rivers- 
brook to recover them. Rolfe had concealed that episode 
from his superior officer because he lacked the courage 
to reveal to him how he had been hoodwinked by Mrs. 
Holymead’s fainting fit the morning he was conducting 
his official inquiry at Riversbrook into the murder. 

“It’s an infernally baffling case,” muttered Rolfe, re- 
filling his pipe from a tin of tobacco on the mantel- 
piece, and walking up and down the cheap lodging-house 
drugget with rapid strides. “If Birchill is not the mur- 
derer who is? Is it Hill?” 

He lit his pipe, closed the window, opened his pocket- 
book and sat down to peruse the notes he had taken 
during his investigation of Sir Horace Fewbanks’s mur- 
der. He read and re-read them, earnestly searching for 


220 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


a fresh due in the pencilled pages. After spending some 
time in this occupation he took a clean sheet of paper 
and a pencil, and copied afresh the following entries 
from his notebook: 

August 19. Went Riversbk. Saw Sir H. F.’s body. 
Discovered fragment of lady’s handkerchief clenched in 
right hand. 

August 22. Made inquiries handkerchief. Unable find 
where purchased. 

September 8. Found Hill at Riversbrook searching 
Sir H. F.’s papers. Told me about bundle of lady’s let- 
ters tied up with pink ribbon which had been taken from 
secret drawer. Says they disappeared morning after 
murder when investigation was taking place. C.’s visitors 
that day: Dr. Slingsby / Seldon to arrange inquest / 
newspaper men / undertaker’s representatives / Crewe. 

C. saw one visitor alone, Hill says. Mrs. H , who 

fainted. C. fetched glass of water, leaving her alone in 
room. Hill suggests her letters indicate friendly relations 
between her and Sir H. F. Sir H. F. expected visit, 
probably from lady, night of murder. Hurried Hill 
off when he returned from Scotland. Mem : Inadvisable 
disclose this to C. 

Underneath his entries of the case Rolfe had written 
finally : 

Points to be remembered: 

(1) Crewe said before the trial that Birchill was not 
the murderer and would be acquitted. Birchill was ac- 
quitted. 

(2) Crewe suggested we had not got the whole truth 
out of Hill. Hill disappears the night after the trial. 
Is Hill the murderer? 

(3) The handkerchief and the letters point to a woman 
in the case, although this was not brought out at the 
trial. Is it possible that woman is Mrs. H.? 

Rolfe realised that the chief pieces of the puzzle were 
before him, but the difficulty was to put them together. 
He felt sure there was a connection between these 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 221 

facts, which, if brought to light, would solve the 
Riversbrook mystery. Without knowing it, he had been 
so influenced by Crewe’s analysis of the case that he 
had practically given up the idea that Birchill had any- 
thing to do with the murder. His real reason for going 
to Hill’s shop that morning was to try and extract some- 
thing from Hill which might put him on the track of the 
actual murderer. He believed Hill knew more than he 
had divulged. Hill, before his disappearance, had placed 
in his hands an important clue, if he only knew how to 
follow it up. That incident of the missing letters must 
have some bearing on the case, if he could only eluci- 
date it. 

Should he disclose to Chippenfield Hill’s story of the 
missing letters? Rolfe dismissed the idea as soon as 
it crossed his mind. He knew his superior officer suffi- 
ciently well to understand that he would be very angry 
to learn that he had been deceived by Mrs. Holymead, 
and, as she was outside the range of his anger, he would 
bear a grudge against his junior officer for discovering 
the deception which had been practised on him, and do 
all he could to block his promotion in Scotland Yard 
in consequence. Apart from that, he could offer Chip- 
penfield no excuse for not having told him before. 

Should he consult Crewe? 

Rolfe dismissed that thought also, but more reluctantly. 
Hang it all, it was too humiliating for an accredited officer 
of Scotland Yard to consult a private detective 1 Rolfe 
had acquired an unwilling respect for Crewe’s abilities 
during the course of the investigations into the Rivers- 
brook case, but he retained all the intolerance which 
regular members of the detective force feel for the 
private detectives who poach on their preserves. Rolfe’s 
professional jealousy was intensified in Crewe’s case 
because of the brilliant successes Crewe had achieved 
during his career at the expense of the reputation of 
Scotland Yard. Rolfe had an instinctive feeling that 
Crewe’s mind was of finer quality than his own, and 


222 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


would see light where he only groped in darkness. If 
Crewe had been his superior officer in Scotland Yard, 
Rolfe would have gone to him unhesitatingly and profited 
by his keener vision, but he could not do so in their 
existing relative positions. He ransacked his brain for 
some other course. 

After long consideration, Rolfe decided to go and 
see Mrs. Holymead and question her about the packet 
of letters which Hill declared she had removed from 
Riversbrook after the murder. He realised that this 
was rather a risky course to pursue, for Mrs. Holymead 
was highly placed and could do him much harm if she got 
her husband to use his influence at the Home Office, for 
then he would have to admit that he had gone to her 
without the knowledge of his superior officer, on the 
statement of a discredited servant who had arranged a 
burglary in his master’s house the night he was mur- 
dered. Nevertheless, Rolfe decided to take the risk. The 
chance of getting somewhere nearer the solution of the 
Riversbrook mystery was worth it, and what a feather 
in his cap it would be if he solved the mystery ! He was 
convinced that Chippenfield had shut out important light 
on the mystery by doggedly insisting, in order to buttress 
up his case against Birchill, that the piece of handker- 
chief which had been found in the dead man’s hand 
was a portion of a handkerchief which had belonged 
to the girl Fanning, and had been brought by Birchill 
from th^ Westminster flat on the night of the murder. It 
was more likely, in view of Hill’s story of the letters, 
that the handkerchief belonged^ to Mrs. Holymead. Rolfe 
had not made up his mind that Mrs. Holymead had com- 
mitted the murder, but he was convinced that she and her 
letters had some connection with the baffling crime, and 
he determined to try and pierce the mystery by ques- 
tioning her. Having arrived at this decision, he re- 
placed his notebook in his coat pocket, knocked the 
ashes out of his pipe, and went to bed. 


CHAPTER XXI 


Rolfe went to Hyde Park next day and walked from 
the Tube station to Holymead’s house at Princes Gate. 
The servant who answered his ring informed him, in 
reply to his question, that Mrs. Holymead was “Not 
at home.” 

“Do you know when she will be home?” persisted 
Rolfe, forestalling an evident desire on the servant’s 
part to shut the door in his face. 

The man looked at Rolfe doubtfully. Well-trained 
English servant though he was, and used to summing up 
strangers at a glance, he could not quite make out who 
Rolfe might be. But before he could come to a decision 
on the point a feminine voice behind him said : 

“What is it, Trappon?” 

The servant turned quickly in the direction of the 
voice. “It’s a er — er — party who wants to see Madam, 
mademoiselle,” he replied. 

“Parti? What mean you by parti? Explain yourself, 
Trappon.” 

“A person — a gentleman, mademoiselle,” replied Trap- 
pon, determined to be on the safe side. 

“Open the door, Trappon, that I may see this gentle- 
man.” 

Trappon somewhat reluctantly complied, and a young 
lady stepped forward. She was tall and dark, with 
charming eyes which were also shrewd; she had a fine 
figure which a tight-fitting dress displayed rather too 
boldly for good taste, and she was sufficiently young to 
be able to appear quite girlish in the half light. 

“You wish to see Madame Holymead?” she said to 
Rolfe. Her manner was engagingly pleasant and French. 

Rolfe felt it incumbent upon him to be gallant in the 
223 


22 4 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


presence of the fair representative of a nation whom 
he vaguely understood placed gallantry in the forefront 
of the virtues. He took off his hat with a courtly bow. 

“I do, mademoiselle,” he replied, “and my business is 
important.” 

“Then, monsieur, step inside if you will be so good, 
and I will see you.” 

She led Rolfe to a small, prettily-furnished room at 
the end of the hall, and carefully shut the door. Then 
she invited Rolfe to be seated, and asked him to state his 
business. 

But this was precisely what Rolfe was not anxious 
to do except to Mrs. Holymead herself. 

“My business is private, and must be placed before 
Mrs. Holymead,” he said firmly. “I wish to see her.” 

“I regret, monsieur, but Madame Holymead is out of 
town. She went last week. If you had only come be- 
fore she went” — Mademoiselle Chiron looked genuinely 
sorry. 

Rolfe was a little taken aback at this intelligence, and 
showed it. 

“Out of town!” he repeated. “Where has she gone 
to?” 

She looked at him almost timidly. 

“But, monsieur, I do not know if I ought to tell you 
without knowing who you are. Are you a friend of 
Madame’s ?” 

“My name is Detective Rolfe — I come from Scotland 
Yard,” replied Rolfe, in the authoritative tone of a man 
who knew that the disclosure was sure to command 
respect, if not a welcome. 

“Scotland? You come from Scotland? Madame will 
regret much that she has missed you.” 

“Scotland Yard, I said,” corrected Rolfe, “not Scot- 
land.” 

“Is it not the same?” Mademoiselle Chiron looked at 
him helplessly. “Scotland Yard — is it not in Scotland? 
What is the difference?” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


225 


Rolfe, with a Londoner’s tolerance for foreign igno- 
rance, painstakingly explained the difference. She looked 
so puzzled that he felt sure she did not understand him. 
But that, he reflected, was not his fault. 

“So you see, mademoiselle, my business with Mrs. 
Holymead is important, therefore I’ll be obliged if you 
will tell me where I can find her,” he said. “In what 
part of the country is she?” 

Mademoiselle Chiron looked distressed. “Really, 
monsieur, I cannot tell you. She is motoring, and I 
should have been with her but that I have un gros 
rhume ” — she produced a tiny scrap of lace handker- 
chief and held it to her nose as though in support of 
her statement — “and she rings me on the telephone from 
different places and tells me the things she does need, 
and I do send them on to her.” 

“Where does she ring you up from?” asked Rolfe, 
eyeing Mademoiselle Chiron’s handkerchief intently. 

“From Brighton — from Eastbourne — wherever she 
stops.” 

“What place was she stopping at when you heard 
from her last?” 

“Eastbourne, monsieur.” 

“And when will she return here?” 

“That, monsieur, I do not know. To-night — to-mor- 
row — next week — she does not tell me. If Monsieur will 
leave me a message I will see that she gets it, for it is 
always me she wants, and it is always me that talks to 
her. What shall I tell her when next she rings the tele- 
phone? If Monsieur will state his business I will tell 
Madame what he tells me. I am Madame’s cousin by 
marriage — in me she has confidence.” 

She spoke in a tone which invited confidence, but 
Rolfe was not prepared to go to the length of trusting 
the young woman he saw before him, despite her as- 
surance that she was in the confidence of Mrs. Holy- 
mead. He rose to his feet with a keen glance at 


226 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


Mademoiselle Chiron’s handkerchief, which she had 
rolled into a little ball in her hand. 

“I cannot disclose my business to you, mademoiselle,” 
he said courteously. “I must see Mrs. Holymead per- 
sonally, so I shall call again when she has returned.” 

“But, monsieur, why will you not tell me?” she asked 
coaxingly. “You are a police agent? Have you there- 
fore come to see Madame about the case ?” 

Rolfe showed that he was taken aback by the direct 
question. 

“The case !” he stammered. “What case ?” 

“Why, monsieur, what case should it be but that of 
which I have so often heard Madame speak? Le judge 
— the good friend of Monsieur and Madame Holymead, 
who was killed by the base assassin! Madame is dis- 
consolate about his terrible end !” Mademoiselle Chiron 
here applied the handkerchief to her eyes on her own 
account. “Have you come to tell her that you have 
caught the wicked man who did assassinate him? Ma- 
dame will be overjoyed!” 

“Why, hardly that,” replied Rolfe, completely off his 
guard. “But we’re on the track, mademoiselle — we’re 
on the track.” 

“And is it that you wanted me to tell Madame per- 
sisted Mademoiselle Chiron. 

“I wanted to ask her a question or two about several 
things,” said Rolfe, who had determined to disclose his 
hand sufficiently to bring Mrs. Holymead back to London 
if she had anything to do with the crime. “I want to ask 
her about some letters that were stolen — no, I won’t 
say stolen — letters that were removed from Riversbrook. 
I have been informed that even if these letters are no 
longer in existence she can give the police a good idea of 
what was in them.” 

The telephone bell in the corner of the room rang 
suddenly. Mademoiselle Chiron ran to answer it, and 
accidentally dropped her handkerchief on the floor in 
picking up the receiver. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 22; 

Mademoiselle Chiron began speaking on the telephone, 
but she stopped suddenly, staring with frightened eyes 
into the mirror at the other side of the room. The glass 
reflected the actions of Rolfe at the table. Seated with 
his back towards her, he had taken advantage of her being 
called to the telephone to examine her handkerchief, 
which he had picked up from the floor. He had produced 
from his pocketbook the scrap of lace and muslin which 
he had found in the murdered man’s hand. He had the 
two on the table side by side comparing them, and Made- 
moiselle Chiron noticed a smile of satisfaction flit across 
his face as he did so. While she looked he restored the 
scrap to his pocket-book, and the pocket-book to his 
pocket. Hastily she turned to the telephone again and 
continued, in a voice which a quick ear would have 
detected was slightly hysterical. 

Then she hung up the receiver and turned to Rolfe. 

“But, monsieur, you were saying ” 

Rolfe handed the handkerchief to its owner with a 
courtly bow which he flattered himself was equal to 
the best French school. 

“I picked this up off the floor, mademoiselle. It is 
yours, I think?” 

“This?” Mademoiselle Chiron touched the handker- 
chief with a dainty forefinger. “It is my handkerchief. 
I dropped it.” 

“It is very pretty,” said Rolfe, with simulated indif- 
ference. “I suppose you bought that in Paris. It does 
not look English.” 

“But no, monsieur, it is quite Engleesh. I bought it in 
the shop.” 

“Indeed! A London shop?” inquired Rolfe, with 
equal indifference. 

“The lingerie shop in Oxford Street — what do you 
call it— Hobson’s?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know — these ladies’ things are a bit 
out of my line,” said Rolfe, rising as he spoke with a 


228 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


smile, in which there was more than a trace of self- 
satisfaction. 

He felt that he had acquitted himself with an adroit- 
ness which Crewe himself might have envied. He had 
made an important discovery and extracted the name of 
the shop where the handkerchief had been bought without 
— so he flattered himself — arousing any suspicions on the 
part of the lady. Rolfe knew from his inquiries in West 
End shops that handkerchiefs of that pattern and quality 
were stocked by many of the good shops, but the fact that 
he had found a handkerchief of this kind in the house of 
a lady who had abstracted secret letters from the mur- 
dered man’s desk, and had, moreover, discovered the 
name of the shop where she bought her handkerchiefs, 
convinced him that he had struck a path which must lead 
to an important discovery. 

Mademoiselle Chiron followed Rolfe into the hall and 
watched his departure from a front window. When she 
saw his retreating figure turn the corner of the street she 
left the window, ran upstairs quickly, and knocked 
lightly at the closed door. 

The door was opened by Mrs. Holymead, who ap- 
peared to be in a state of nervous agitation. Her large 
brown eyes were swollen and dim with weeping, her hair 
had become partly unloosened, her face was white and 
her dress disordered. She caught the Frenchwoman by 
the wrist and drew her into the bedroom, closing the 
door after her. 

“What did he want, Gabrielle?” she gasped. “What 
did he say? Has he come about — that f” 

Gabrielle nodded her head. 

“Gabrielle!” Mrs. Holymead’s voice rose almost to a 
cry. “Oh, what are we to do? Did he come to ar- 
rest ” 

“No, no! He was not so bad. He did not come to 
do dreadful things, but just to have a little talk.” 

“A little talk? What about?” 

“He wanted to see you, and ask you one or two little 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


229 

questions. I put him off. He was like wax in my hands. 
Pouf! He has gone, so why trouble ?” 

“But he will come again ! He is sure to come again I” 

“No doubt. He says he will come again — in a week 
— when you return/’ 

Mrs. Holymead wrung her hands .helplessly. 

“What are we to do then ?” she wailed. 

“We will look the tragedy in the face when it comes. 
Ma foil What have you been doing to yourself? For 
nothing is it worth to look like that With deft and 
loving fingers Gabrielle began to arrange Mrs. Holy- 
mead’s hair. “We will have everything right before this 
little police agent returns. We will show him he is the 
complete fool for suspecting you know about the mur- 
der.” 

“But what can you do, Gabrielle?” asked Mrs. Holy- 
mead. 

She looked at Gabrielle with her large brown eyes, as 
though she were utterly dependent on the other’s stronger 
will for support and assistance. Mademoiselle Chiron 
stopped in her arrangement of Mrs. Holymead’s hair and, 
bending over, kissed her affectionately. 

“Ma petite she said, “do not worry. I have thought 
of a plan — oh, a most excellent plan — which I will my- 
self execute to-morrow, and then shall all your troubles 
be finished, and you will be happy again.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


“A lady to see you, sir.” 

“What sort of a lady, Joe?” 

“Furren, I should say, sir, by the way she speaks. I 
arskt her if she had an appointment, and she said no, 
but she said she wanted to see you on very urgent and 
particular business. I told her most people says that wot 
comes to see you, but she says hers was reely important. 
Arskt me to tell you, sir, that it was about the Rivers- 
brook case.” 

“The Riversbrook case? I’ll see her, Joe. Has not 
Stork returned yet?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Tell him to go to his dinner when he comes back. 
Show the lady in, Joe.” 

Crewe regarded his caller keenly as Joe ushered her 
in, placed a chair for her, and went out, closing the door 
noiselessly behind him. She was a tall, well-dressed, 
graceful woman, fairly young, with dark hair and eyes. 
She looked quickly at the detective as she entered, and 
Crewe was struck by the shrewd penetration of her 
glance. 

“You are Monsieur Crewe, the great detective — is it 
not so ?” she asked, as she sat down. The glance she now 
gave the detective at closer range from her large dark 
eyes was innocent and ingenuous, with a touch of ad- 
miration. The contrast between it and her former look 
was not lost on Crewe, and he realised that his visitor 
was no ordinary woman. 

“My name is Crewe,” he said, ignoring the compliment. 
“What do you wish to see me for ?” 

The visitor did not immediately reply. She nervously 
unfastened a bag she carried, and taking out a singu- 
230 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


231 


larly unfeminine-looking handkerchief— a large cambric 
square almost masculine in its proportions, and guiltless 
of lace or perfume — held it to her face for a moment. 
But Crewe noticed that her eyes were dry when she 
removed it to remark: 

"What I say to you, monsieur, is in strictest confi- 
dence — as sacred as the confession.” 

"Anything you say to me will be in strict confidence,” 
said Crewe a little grimly. 

"And the boy ? Can he not hear through the keyhole ?” 
Crewe’s visitor glanced expressively at the door by which 
she had entered. 

"You are quite safe here, madame — mademoiselle, I 
should say,” he added, with a quick glance at her left 
hand, from which she slowly removed the glove as she 
spoke. 

"Mademoiselle Chiron, monsieur,” said Gabrielle, flash- 
ing another smile at him. "I am Madame Holymead’s 
relative — her cousin. I come to see you about the dread- 
ful murder of the judge, Madame’s friend.” 

"You come frdm Mrs. Holymead?” said Crewe 
quickly. "Then, Mademoiselle Chiron, before ” 

"No, no, monsieur, no!” Her agitation was unmistak- 
ably genuine. "I do not come from Madame Holymead. 
I am her relative, it is true, but I come — how shall I say 
it? — from myself. I mean she does not know of my 
visit to you, monsieur.” 

"I quite understand,” replied Crewe. 

"Monsieur Crewe,” said Gabrielle hurriedly, "although 
I have not come from Madame Holymead, it is for her 
sake that I come to see you — to save her from the per- 
secution of one of your police agents who wants to ask 
her questions about this so sordid — so terrible a crime! 
Pie has come once, this agent — last night he came — and 
he told me he wanted to question Madame Holymead 
about the murder of her dear friend the judge. I do 
not want Madame worried with these questions, so I told 
him Madame was away in the motor in the country; but 


232 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


he says he will come again and again till he sees her. 
Madame is distracted when she learns of his visit; it 
opens up her bleeding heart afresh, for she and her hus- 
band were intime with the dead judge, and deeply, ter- 
ribly, they deplore his so dreadful end. I see Madame 
cry, and I say to myself I will not let this little police 
agent spoil her beauty and give her the migraine: his 
visits must be, shall be, prevented. I have heard of the 
so great and good Monsieur Crewe, and I will go and 
see him. We will — as you say in your English way — put 
our heads together, this famous detective and I, and we 
will find some way of — how do you call it ? — circumvent- 
ing this police agent so that my dear Madame shall cry 
no more. Monsieur Crewe, I am here, and I beg of you 
to help me.” 

Crewe listened to this outburst with inward surprise 
but impassive features. Apparently the police had come 
to the conclusion that they had blundered in arresting 
Birchill for the murder of Sir Horace Fewbanks, and 
had recommenced inquiries with a view to bringing the 
crime home to somebody else. He did not know whether 
their suspicions were now directed against Mrs. Holy- 
mead, but they had conducted their preliminary inquiries 
so clumsily as to arouse her fears that they did. So 
much was apparent from Mademoiselle Chiron’s remarks, 
despite the interpretation she sought to place on Mrs. 
Holymead’s fears. He wondered if the “police agent” 
was Rolfe or Chippenfield. It was obvious that the cool 
proposal that he should help to shield Mrs. Holymead 
against unwelcome police attentions covered some deeper 
move, and he shaped his conversation in the endeavour 
to extract more from the Frenchwoman. 

“I am very sorry to hear that Mrs. Holymead has 
been subjected to this annoyance,” he said warily. “This 
police agent, did he come by himself ?” 

“But yes, monsieur, I have already said it.” 

“I know, but I thought he might have had a companion 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


233 

waiting for him in a taxi-cab outside. Scotland Yard men 
frequently travel in pairs/’ 

“He had no taxi-cab,” declared Mademoiselle Chiron, 
positively. “He walked away on foot by himself. I 
watched him from the window.” 

Crewe registered a mental note of this admission. If 
she had watched the detective’s departure from the win- 
dow she evidently had some reason for wanting to see 
the last of him. Aloud he said: 

“I expect I know him. What was he like ?” 

“Tall, as tall as you, only bigger — much bigger. And 
he had the great moustache which he caressed again and 
again with his fingers.” Gabrielle daintily imitated the 
action on her own short upper lip. 

“I know him,” declared Crewe with a smile. “His 
name is Rolfe. There should be nothing about him to 
alarm you, mademoiselle. Why, he is quite a ladies’ 
man.” 

Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. 

“That may be,” she replied; “but I like him not, and 
I do not wish him to worry Madame Holymead.” 

“But why not let him see Mrs. Holymead?” suggested 
Crewe, after a short pause. “As he only wants to ask 
her a few short questions, it seems to me that would 
be the quickest way out of the difficulty, and would save 
you all the trouble and worry you speak of.” 

“I tell you I will not,” declared Gabrielle vehemently. 
“I will not have Madame Holymead worried and made 
ill with the terrible ordeal. Bah ! What do you men — 
so clumsy — know of the delicate feelings of a lady like 
Madame Holymead? The least soup<;on of excitement 
and she is disturbed, distraite, for days. After last night 
— after the visit of the police agent — she was quite hys- 
terical.” 

“Why should she be when she had nothing to be 
afraid of?” rejoined Crewe. 

He spoke in a tone of simple wonder, but Gabrielle 


234 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


shot a quick glance at him from under her veiled lashes 
as she replied: 

“Bah ! What has that to do with it ? I repeat : Mon- 
sieur Crewe, you men cannot understand the feelings of 
a lady like Madame Holymead in a matter like this. 
She and her husband were, as I have said before, intime 
with the great judge. They visited his house, they 
dined with him, they met him in Society. Behold, he 
is brutally, horribly killed. Madame, when she hears 
the terrible news, is ill for days ; she cannot eat, she cannot 
sleep; she can interest herself in nothing. She is forget- 
ting a little when the police agents they catch a man 
and say he is the murderer. Then comes the trial of 
this man at the court with so queer a name — Old Bailee. 
The papers are full of the terrible story again ; of the 
dead man ; how he looked killed ; how he lay in a pool of 
blood; how they cut him open! Madame Holymead 
cannot pick up a paper without seeing these things, and 
she falls ill again. Then the jury say the man the police 
agents caught is not the murderer. He goes free, and 
once more the talk dies away. Madame Holymead once 
more begins to forget, when this police agent comes to 
her house to remind her once more all about it. It is 
too cruel, monsieur, it is too cruel !” 

Gabrielle’s voice vibrated with indignation as she con- 
cluded, and Crewe regarded her closely. He decided 
that her affection for Mrs. Holymead was not simulated, 
and that it would be best to handle her from that point 
of view. 

“I am sorry,” he said coldly, “but I do not see how 
I can help you.” 

“Monsieur,” said the Frenchwoman, clasping her 
hands, “I entreat you not to say so. It would be so 
easy for you to help — not me, but Madame.” 

“How?” 

“You know this police agent. You also are a police 
agent, though so much greater. Therefore you whisper 
just one little word in the ear of your friend the police 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


235 


agent, and he will not bother Madame Holymead again. I 
think you could do this. And if you need money to give 
to the police agent, why, I have brought some.” She 
fumbled nervously at her hand-bag. 

“Stay,” said Crewe. “What you ask is impossible. I 
have nothing whatever to do with Scotland Yard. I 
could not interfere in their inquiries, even if I wished to. 
They would only laugh at me.” 

Gabrielle’s dark eyes showed her disappointment, but 
she made one more effort to gain her end. She leant 
nearer to Crewe, and laid a persuasive hand on his arm. 

“If you would only make the effort,” she said coaxingly, 
“my beautiful Madame Holymead would be for ever 
grateful.” 

“Mademoiselle, once more I repeat that what you ask 
is impossible,” returned Crewe decisively. “I repeat, I 
cannot see why Mrs. Holymead should object to answer- 
ing a few questions the police wish to ask her. She 
is too sensitive about such a trifle.” 

Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders slightly in tacit recog- 
nition of the fact that the man in front of her was too 
shrewd to be deceived by subterfuge. 

“There is another reason, monsieur,” she whispered. 

“You had better tell it to me.” 

“If you had been a woman you would have guessed. 
The great judge who was killed was in his spare moments 
what you call a gallant — he did love my sex. In France 
this would not matter, but in England they think much 
of it — so very much. Madame Holymead is frightened 
for fear the least breath of scandal should attach to her 
name, if the world knew that the police agent had visited 
her house on such an errand. Madame is innocent — it 
is not necessary to assure you of that; but the prudish 
dames of England are censorious.” 

“The Scotland Yard people are not likely to disclose 
anything about it,” said Crewe. 

“That may be so, but these things come out,” retorted 
Gabrielle. 


236 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


“Monsieur, ” she added, after a pause, and speaking in 
a low tone, “I know that you can do much — very much 
— if you will, and can stop Madame Holymead from be- 
ing worried. Would you do so if you were told who 
the murderer was — I mean he who did really kill the great 
judge ?” 

Crewe was genuinely surprised, but his control over 
his features was so complete that he did not betray 
it. 

“Do you know who Sir Horace Fewbanks’s murderer 
is?” he asked, in quiet even tones. 

“Monsieur, I do. I will tell you the whole story in 
secret — how do you say? — in confidence, if you promise 
me you will help Madame Holymead as I have asked 
vou.” 

“I cannot enter into a bargain like that,” rejoined 
Crewe. “I do not know whether Mrs. Holymead may 
not be implicated — concerned — in what you say.” 

“Monsieur, she is not!” flashed Gabrielle indignantly. 
“She knows nothing about it. What I have to tell you 
concerns myself alone.” 

“In that case,” rejoined Crewe, “I think you had 
better speak to me frankly and freely, and if I can 
I will help you.” 

“You are perhaps right,” she replied. “I will tell you 
everything, provided you give me your word of honour 
that you will not inform the police of what I will tell you.” 

“If you bind me to that promise I do not see how 
I can help you in the direction you indicate,” said Crewe, 
after a moment’s thought. “If the police are asked to 
abandon their inquiries about Mrs. Holymead, they will 
naturally wish to know the reason.” 

“You are quite right,” said Gabrielle. “I did not think 
of that. But if I tell you everything, and you have to 
tell the police agents so as to help Madame, will you 
promise that the police agents do not come and arrest 
me r 

“Provided you have not committed murder or been 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


237 

in any way accessory to it, I think I can promise you 
that,” rejoined Crewe. 

“Monsieur, I do not understand you, but I can almost 
divine your meaning. Your promise is what you call a 
guarded one. Nevertheless, I like your face, and I will 
trust you.” 

Gabrielle relapsed into silence for some moments, look- 
ing at Crewe earnestly. 

“Monsieur,” she said at length, “it is a terrible story I 
have to relate, and it is difficult for me to tell a stranger 
what I know. Nevertheless, I will begin. I knew the 
great judge well.” 

“You knew Sir Horace Fewbanks?” exclaimed Crewe. 

“He was — my lover, monsieur.” 

She brought the last two words out defiantly, with a 
quick glance at Crewe to see how he took the avowal. 
She seemed to find something reassuring in his answer- 
ing glance, and she continued, in more even tones : 

“I had often seen him at the house of Madame Holy- 
mead when I came to London to visit her. I admired 
Sir Horace when I saw him — often he used to call and 
dine, for he was the friend of Monsieur Holymead. But 
Madame told me that the great judge was what in Eng- 
land you call a lover of the ladies — that he was. dangerous 
— so I must be careful of him. I used to look at him 
when he called, and thought he was handsome in the 
English way, and sometimes he looked at me when he 
was unobserved, and smiled at me. But Madame did not 
like me looking at him ; she said I was foolish ; she warned 
me to be careful.” 

Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders expressively. 

“Of what use was Madame’s warning? It did but 
make me wish to know more of this great lover of my sex. 
He saw that, and made the opportunity, and made love to 
me. He was so ardent, so fervid a lover that I was con- 
quered. 

“After we had been lovers I told him my secret — 
that I was married. Pierre Simon, my husband, was a 


238 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


bad man, and so I left him. But Madame must not 
know that I was married, for that is my secret. It 
does not do to tell everything — besides, it would have 
distressed her. 

“Monsieur, I was happy with my lover, the great judge. 
He was charming. He had that charm of manner which 
you English lack. Faithful? I do not know. Often we 
were together, and often we wrote letters when to meet 
was impossible. He kept my letters — they amused him 
so, he said — they were so French, so piquant, so different 
to English ladies’ letters. Alas, monsieur, there had been 
others — many others there must have been, for he under- 
stood my sex so well. 

“One afternoon I- was out for a walk looking in the 
great shops in Regent Street, when I felt a hand placed 
on my shoulder, and looking round I saw Pierre, my 
husband. He was pleased at the meeting, but I was 
not pleased. He took me to a cafe where we could 
talk. It was what he always did talk about — money, 
money, money. He always wanted money. He said I 
must find him some, and when I told him I had none he 
said I must find some way of getting it, or he would come 
to the house and expose my secret. I walked away out of 
the cafe and left him there. But I soon saw him again, 
and again. He followed me and talked to me against my 
will. 

“Monsieur, I was very much distressed, and for a 
long time I tried to think of a way to get rid of Pierre, 
for I was afraid that he would come to the house and tell 
Madame Holymead I was married. Then I thought of 
the great judge, my lover. He would know how to 
send Pierre away, for Pierre would be frightened of 
him. But Sir Horace was in Scotland, shooting the 
poor birds. But I wrote to him and asked him for my 
sake to come at once, because I was in distress and 
needed help. Monsieur, he came — but he came to his 
death. He sent me a letter to meet him at Riversbrook 
at half-past ten o’clock. He was sorry it was so late, 


THE*HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 239 

but he thought it would be safer not to come to the 
house till after dark in the long summer evening, for 
people were so censorious. I was to tell Madame Holy- 
mead that I was going to the theatre with a friend. 

“I was so pleased to think that I would get rid of 
Pierre, that on the morning, when he stopped me to 
ask me again about the money, I showed him the letter 
of the great judge, and told him I would make the judge 
put him in prison if he did not go away and leave me 
alone. ‘He is your lover/ said Pierre. ‘I will kill him/ 
But I laughed, for I knew Pierre did not care if I had 
many lovers. I said to him, ‘Pierre, you would extort 
the money’ — blackmail, the English call it, do they not, 
Monsieur Crewe ? — ‘but you would not kill. Sir Horace 
is not afraid of you. If you go near him he would have 
you taken off to gaol/ But Pierre he was deep in thought. 
Several times he said, ‘I want money/ Each time I said 
to him, ‘Then you must work for it/ ‘That is no way 
to get money/ he answered. ‘This great judge, he has 
much money, is it not so ?’ 

“I left him, monsieur, thinking of money. But I did 
not know how bad his thoughts were. I returned home, 
and I told Madame Holymead I would go to the theatre 
that night. I left the house at eight o’clock, and after 
walking along Piccadilly and Regent Street took the train 
to Hampstead. Then I walked up to the house of Sir 
Horace so as not to be too early. The gate was open 
and I thought that strange, but I had no thought of 
murder. As I walked up the garden I heard a shot — two 
shots — and then a cry, and the sound of something falling 
on the floor. The door of the house was open, and the 
light was burning in the hall. Upstairs I heard the noise 
of footsteps — quick footsteps — and then I heard them 
coming down the staircase. I was afraid, and I hid my- 
self behind the curtains in the hall. The footsteps came 
down, and nearer and nearer, and when they passed me 
I looked out to see. Monsieur, it was Pierre. I called 
to him softly, ‘Pierre, Pierre!’ He looked round, and 


240 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


his face, it was so different — so dreadful. He did not 
know my voice, and he ran away from me with a cry. 

“Monsieur, my heart is a brave one. I have not what 
you call nerves, but when I knew I was alone in the great 
house with I knew not what, a great fear clutched me. 
I stood still in the hall with my eyes fixed on the stairs 
above. At first all was silent, then I heard a dreadful 
sound — a groan. I wanted to run away then, monsieur, 
but the good God commanded me to go up and into the 
room, where a fellow creature needed me. I went up- 
stairs, and along to the door of a room which was half 
open. I pushed it wide open and went in. 

“Mon Dieu! the judge was alone there, dying. Pierre 
had shot him. He lay along the floor, gasping, groaning, 
and the blood dripping from his breast. When I saw 
this I ran forward and took his poor head on my knee, 
and tried to stop the blood with my handkerchief. But 
as I did this the judge groaned once more. He knew 
me not, though I called him by name. In terrible agony 
he writhed his head off my breast. His hand clutched at 
the hole in his breast, closing on my handkerchief. And 
so he died. 

“Monsieur, strange it may seem, but I do assure you 
that I became calm again when he was dead. I rose to 
my feet and looked round me in the room. On the floor 
near him I saw a revolver. I picked it up and hid it 
in my bag. The tube of it was warm. Then I sat down 
in a chair and thought what I must do. The police must 
not know I was there. They must not know he was my 
lover. I thought of my letters that I wrote to him. He 
had them hidden in a little drawer at the back of his 
desk — a secret drawer. Often had he showed me my 
letters there, and once he had showed me where to find 
the spring that opened the drawer. So I searched for 
the spring and I found it. The drawer opened and 
there were my letters tied together. I took them all 
and hid them in my bag, and then I closed the hiding 
place. There remained but the handkerchief which my 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


241 


lover held in his hand. I tried to get it out, but I could 
not. In my hurry I dragged it out — it came away then, 
but left a little bit in his hand. It did not show. I dared 
not wait longer. I turned out the light, and hurried out of 
the room and downstairs. Again I turned out the light, 
and closed the door, and hurried away. 

“That, monsieur, is my story.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


As Gabrielle finished her story, she cast a quick glance 
at Crewe’s face as though seeking to divine his decision. 
But apparently she could read nothing there, and with 
an imperious gesture she exclaimed: 

'‘You will do what I ask now that I have exposed my 
secret — my shame to you — and told everything? You will 
save Madame Holymead from being persecuted by these 
police agents?” 

“I must ask you a few questions first.” 

The contrast between the detective’s quiet English 
tones and the Frenchwoman’s impetuous appeal was ac- 
centuated by the methodical way in which Crewe slowly 
jotted down an entry in his open notebook. Her 
dark eyes sparkled in an agony of impatience as she 
watched him. 

“Ask them quick, monsieur, for I burn in the suspense.” 

“In the first place, then, have you any ” 

“Hold, monsieur! I know what you would ask! You 
would say if I have any proofs? Stupid that I am to 
forget things so important. I have brought you the 
proofs.” 

She fumbled at the clasp of her hand-bag, as she 
spoke, and before she had finished speaking she had 
torn it open and emptied its contents on the table in 
front of Crewe — a dainty handkerchief and a revolver. 

“See, monsieur !” she cried ; “here is the handkerchief 
of which I told you. It is that which the judge seized 
when I tried to stop the blood flowing in his breast — 
look at the corner and you will see that a little bit has 
been torn oil by his almost dead hand. And the revolver 
— it is 'that which I picked up on the floor near him. I 
have had it locked up ever since.” 

242 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


243 


Crewe examined both articles closely. The revolver 
was a small, nickel-plated weapon with silver chasing, 
with the murdered man’s initials engraved in the handle. 
It had five chambers, and one of the cartridges had 
been discharged. The other four chambers were still 
loaded. Crewe carefully extracted the cartridges, and 
examined them closely. One of them he held up to the 
light in order to inspect it more minutely. 

“Did you do this ?” he asked. “Have you been trying 
to fire off the revolver?” 

“No, no, monsieur,” she exclaimed quickly. “I would 
not fire it. I do not understand it. I have been careful 
not to touch the little thing that sets it going.” 

“The trigger,” said Crewe. He again studied the 
cartridge that had attracted his attention. It had missed 
fire, for 011 the cap was a dint where the hammer had 
struck it. He placed the four cartridges on the table 
and turning his attention to the handkerchief examined 
it minutely. It was one of those filmy scraps of muslin 
and lace which ladies call a handkerchief — an article 
whose cost is out of all proportion to its usefulness. 
Gabrielle, who was watching him keenly as he examined 
it, exclaimed: 

“The handkerchief — a box of them — were given me 
by Sir Horace because he knew I love pretty things.” 

She laid a finger on the missing corner, which might 
indeed have been torn off in the manner described. A 
scrap of the lace was missing, and it was evident that it 
had been removed with violence, for the lace around the 
gap was loosened, and the muslin slightly frayed. 

“You say that the corner was torn off when you 
wrenched the handkerchief from the dead man’s hold?” 
said Crewe. “But it was not found in his hand by the 
police or anyone else. And he was not buried with it, 
for I examined the body carefully. What became of 
it?” 

Gabrielle looked at him quickly as though she suspected 
some trap. 


244 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


'‘You would play with me,” she said at length. “What 
became of it? Why, you must surely know that the 
police of Scot — Scotland Yard have it. The police agent 
who called on Madame had it. What is his name — 
Rudolf ?” 

“Rolfe ?” exclaimed Crewe. “Has he got it ?” 

“Yes,” she replied. “He did not show it to me, but 
I saw it nevertheless. I dropped my handkerchief when 
I spoke at the telephone and Monsieur Rolfe picked it 
up. Quickly he studied my handkerchief — not this one, 
monsieur, but one of the same kind — and from his pocket- 
book he took out the missing piece that was in the dead 
man’s hand and he studied them side by side. He thought 
I did not see — that my back was turned — but I saw in the 
mirror which hung on the wall. Then, when I finished 
my telephone, he bowed and said, ‘Your handkerchief, 
mademoiselle.’ It was not so badly done — for a clumsy 
police agent.” 

She was not able to recognise how keen was Crewe’s 
interest in her statement, but she saw that she had 
pleased him. 

“It is because of this that he will come again,” she 
continued. “It is because of this that he would ques- 
tion Madame Holymead. And then what will happen? 
I do not know. The police make so many mistakes — 
blunders you English call them. Would they arrest her 
with their blunders? That is why I come to you to ask 
you to save her.” 

“May I have the revolver and the handkerchief?” 
asked Crewe. “I will take great care of them.” 

“They are at your disposal, for you will use them to 
confront the police agent.” 

Crewe again examined the articles in silence before 
taking them to his secretaire and locking them up in one 
of the pigeon-holes. Then he turned to Gabrielle, whose 
large luminous eyes met his unhesitatingly. She even 
smiled slightly — a frank engaging smile, as she remarked : 

“And now, monsieur, any more questions?” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


245 


Crewe smiled back at her. 

“You have told a remarkable story, mademoiselle, and 
corroborated it with two important pieces of evidence, 
which are in themselves almost sufficient to carry convic- 
tion, ^ he said. “But the Scotland Yard police are a sus- 
picious lot, and it is necessary for me to have further 
information in order to convince them — if I am to help 
you as you wish.” 

Gabrielle flashed a look of gratitude at Crewe. She 
understood from his words that he believed her story and 
was disposed to help her, although the police of Scotland 
Yard might prove harder to convince than him. 

“Bah ! those police agents — they are the same every- 
where,” she exclaimed. “They deal so much with crime 
that their minds get the taint, and between the false and 
true they cannot tell the difference. Que voulez-vous ? 
They are but small in brains. With you, the case is 
different. You have it here — and there.” She touched 
her temples lightly with a finger of each hand. “Proceed, 
monsieur: ask me what questions you will. I shall en- 
deavour to answer them.” 

“You said that as you were hiding behind the cur- 
tains on the stairway landing, Pierre, your husband, 
rushed down past you. You are quite sure it was he?” 

“Of that, monsieur, unfortunately there is no doubt. 
I saw his face quite distinctly when he passed me, and 
when he turned round.” 

“The light would be shining from behind, and would 
not reveal his face very closely,” suggested Crewe. 

“Nevertheless, monsieur, it was quite sufficient for me 
to see Pierre clearly. His head was half-turned as he 
ran, as though he was looking back expecting to see the 
judge rise up and punish him for his dreadful deed, 
and I saw him en silhouette, oh, most distinctly — im- 
possible him to mistake. I called softly — ‘Pierre!’ just 
like that, and he turned his face right round, and then 
with a cry he disappeared along the path.” 

“About what time was this ?” 


246 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


“The time — it was half-past ten, for that was the time 
I was to be there according to the letter the judge sent 
me. 

“But are you sure it was half-past ten? Weren't you 
early? Wasn’t it just about ten o’clock?” 

“No, monsieur,” she replied sadly. “If it had been ten 
o’clock I would have been in time to save the life of 
my lover — to prevent this great tragedy which brings 
grief to so many.” 

Crewe looked at her sharply, and then nodded his 
head in acquiescence of the fact that much misery would 
have been averted if she had been in time to save the 
life of Sir Horace Fewbanks. 

“When you went into the room, Sir Horace Few- 
banks, you say, was lying on the floor, dying. Where- 
abouts in the room was he ?” 

“If he had been in this room he would have been lying 
just behind you, with his head to the wall and his feet 
pointing towards that window. He struggled and groaned 
after I went in, and altered his position a little, but not 
much. He died so.” 

Crewe rapidly reviewed his recollection of the room in 
which the judge had been killed. Once again Gabrielle’s 
statement tallied with his own reconstruction of the crime 
and the manner of its perpetration. If the murder had 
been committed in his office the second bullet would have 
gone through the window instead of imbedding itself in 
the wall, and the judge would have fallen in the spot 
where she indicated. 

“And where was the writing-desk from where you 
got your letters?” was Crewe’s next question. 

“It was over there — almost by that — your little book- 
case there.” 

She pointed to a small oaken bookstand which stood 
slightly in advance of the more imposing shelves in which 
reposed the portentous volumes of newspaper clippings 
and photographs which constituted Crewe’s “Rogues’ 
Library.” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


247 

“Now we come to the letters. You took them from 
the secret drawer in the desk. Why did you remove 
them?” 

‘Because I would not have the police agents find them, 
for then they would want to know so much.” 

“And what did you do with them?” 

“Monsieur Crewe, I destroyed them. When I got home 
I burnt them all — I was so frightened.” 

“You mean you were frightened to keep them in your 
possession after the judge was killed?” 

“Yes. What place had I to keep them safe from pry- 
ing eyes ? So, monsieur, I burnt them all — one by one— 
and the charred fragments I kept and took into the Park 
next day, where I scattered them unobserved.” 

“And what became of the letter you wrote to Sir 
Horace Fewbanks at Craigleith Hall, asking him to come 
to London and save you from your husband’s persecu- 
tions ?” 

She looked at him earnestly in the endeavour to ascer- 
tain if he had laid a trap for her. 

“Sir Horace destroyed it in Scotland, I suppose, if the 
police did not find it.” 

“Strange that he should have kept all your other let- 
ters so carefully and destroyed that one. Perhaps it was 
in his pocket-book that was stolen.” 

“I do not know. What does it matter ? It has gone.” 
She shrugged her shoulders lightly and indifferently. 

“Do you know who stole the pocket-book?” 

“No, monsieur. I thought it was stolen in the train.” 

“That is the police theory,” replied Crewe. “But let 
that go. Have you, since the night of the murder, seen 
anything of Pierre?” 

“Monsieur, I have not. It is as though the earth has 
him swallowed. He keeps silent with the silence of the 
grave.” 

“He is wise to do so,” responded Crewe. “Now, 
mademoiselle, I have no more questions to ask you. Your 


248 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


confidence is safe; you need be under no apprehensions 
on that score.” 

“I care not for myself, Monsieur Crewe, so long as 
Madame Holymead is freed from the persecutions of the 
police agents,” replied Gabrielle, rising from her seat as 
she spoke. "If, after hearing my story, you could but 
give me the assurance ” 

"I think I can safely promise you that Mrs. Holy- 
mead will not be troubled with any further police atten- 
tions,” said Crewe, after a moment’s pause. 

Gabrielle broke into profuse expressions of gratitude 
as she turned to go. 

“For the rest then, I care not what happens. I am — 
how do you say it — I am overjoyed. Je vous r enter cie, 
monsieur, I beg you not, I can find my way out un- 
attended.” 

But Crewe showed her to the stairs, where again he 
had to listen to her profuse thanks before she finally 
departed. He watched her graceful figure till it was lost 
to sight in the winding staircase, and then he turned back 
to his office. In the outer office he stopped to speak to 
Joe, who, perched on an office- footstool, was tapping 
quickly on the office-table with his pen-knife, swaying 
backwards and forwards dangerously on his perch in the 
intensity of his emotions as he played the hero’s part in 
the drama of saving the runaway engine from dashing 
into the 4.40 express by calling up .the Red Gulch station 
on the wire. 

“Joe,” said Crewe, "I’ll see nobody for an hour at least 
— nobody. You understand?” 

Joe came out of the cinema world long enough to nod 
his head in emphatic understanding of the instructions. 
In his own room Crewe pulled out his notebook and once 
more gave himself up to the study of the baffling Rivers- 
brook mystery, in the new light of Gabrielle’s confession. 

Part of her story, he reflected, must be true. She had 
produced Sir Horace’s revolver, and, still more important, 
a handkerchief which he had clutched in his dying strug- 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


249 


gles. It was obvious that she or some other woman had 
been at Riversbrook the night of the murder, and in the 
room with the murdered man before he died. That tallied 
with Birchill’s statement to Hill that he had seen a woman 
close the fronts door and walk along the garden path 
while he was Hiding in the garden. Crewe, recalling 
Gabrielle’s description of the room, came to the con- 
clusion that it was probably she who had been with the 
judge in his dying moments. No one but a person who 
had actually seen it could have described the room with 
such minuteness. 

She had been in the room, then. For what object? 
For the reasons stated in her confession? Crewe shook 
his head doubtfully. 

“She evaded the trap about the pocket-book, but she 
made one bad mistake,” he mused. “The letters in the 
secret drawer were taken away, and I have no doubt 
were burnt as she says. But were they her letters? Was 
Sir Horace her lover ? At any rate, she did not get hold 
of them in the way she said. They were not taken away 
on the night Sir Horace was murdered, for the simple rea- 
son that they were not in the secret drawer at the 
time.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Rolfe was spending a quiet evening in his room after 
a trying day's inquiries into a confidence trick case; in- 
quiries so fruitless that they had brought down on his 
head an official reproof from Inspector Chippenfield. 

Rolfe had left Scotland Yard that evening in a some- 
what despondent frame of mind in consequence, but a 
brisk walk home and a good supper had done him so 
much good, that with a tranquil mind and his pipe in 
his mouth, he was able to devote himself to the hobby 
of his leisure hours with keen enjoyment. 

This hobby would have excited the wondering contempt 
of Joe Leaver, whose frequent attendance at cinema thea- 
tres had led him to the conclusion that police detec- 
tives — who, unlike his master, had to take the rough with 
the smooth — spent their spare time practising revolver 
shooting, and throwing daggers at an ace of hearts on 
the wall. Rolfe’s hobby was nothing more exciting than 
stamp collecting. He was deeply versed in the lore of 
stamps, and his private ambition was to become the 
possessor of a '‘blue Mauritius." His collection, though 
extensive, was by no means of fabulous value, being made 
up chiefly of modest purchases from the stamp collecting 
shops, and finds in the waste-paper-baskets at Scotland 
Yard after the arrival of the foreign mails. 

That day he had made a particularly good haul from 
the waste-paper-baskets, for his “catch" included several 
comparatively good specimens from Japan and Fiji. He 
sat gloating over these treasures, examining them care- 
fully and holding each one up to the light as he separated 
it from the piece of paper to which it had been affixed. 
He pasted them one by one in his stamp album with 
loving, lingering fingers, adjusting each stamp in its little 
250 


THE HAMPSTEAD* MYSTERY 


251 

square in the book with meticulous care. He was so 
absorbed in this occupation that he did not hear the 
ascending footsteps drawing nearer to his door, and did 
not see a visitor at the door when the footsteps ceased. It 
was Crewe's voice that recalled him back from the stamp 
collector’s imaginary world. 

“Why, Mr. Crewe,” said Rolfe, with evident pleasure, 
“who’d have thought of seeing you?” 

“Your landlady asked me if I’d come up myself,” said 
Crewe, in explaining his intrusion. “She’s ‘too much 
worrited and put about, to say nothing of having a bad 
back,’ to show me upstairs.” 

“I’ve never known her to be well,” said Rolfe, with a 
laugh. “Every morning when she brings up my break- 
fast I’ve got to hear details of her bad back which should 
be kept for the confidential ear of the doctor. But she 
regards me as a son, I think — I’ve been here so long. But 

now you are here, Mr. Crewe ” Rolfe waited in polite 

expectation that his visitor would disclose the object of 
his visit. 

But Crewe seemed in no hurry to do so. He produced 
his cigar case and offered Rolfe a cigar, which the latter 
accepted with a pleasant recollection of the excellent 
flavour of the cigars the private detective kept. When 
each of them had his cigar well alight, Crewe glanced at 
the open stamp album and commenced talking about 
stamps. It was a subject which Rolfe was always willing 
to discuss. Crewe declared that he was an ignorant out- 
sider as far as stamps were concerned, but he professed 
to have a respectful admiration for those who immersed 
themselves in such a fascinating subject. Rolfe, with the 
fervid egoism of the collector, talked about stamps for 
half an hour without recalling that his visitor must have 
come to talk about something else. 

“I’ve got a small stamp collection in my office,” said 
Crewe, when Rolfe paused for a moment. “It belonged 
to that Jewish diamond merchant who was shot in Hat- 
ton Gardens two years ago. You remember his case?” 


252 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


“Rather ! That was a smart bit of work of yours, Mr. 
Crewe, in laying your hands on the woman who did it 
and getting back the diamond.” 

Crewe smiled in response. 

“The Jew was very grateful, poor fellow. He died in 
the hospital after the trial, so she was lucky to escape 
with twelve years. He left me a diamond ring and a 
stamp album that had come into his possession.” 

“I should like to see it,” said Rolfe eagerly. “It is 
more than likely that there are some good specimens in it. 
The Jews are keen collectors. If you let me have a look 
at it, I’ll tell you what the collection is worth.” 

“You can have it altogether,” said Crewe. “I’ll send 
my boy Joe round with it in the morning.” 

“Oh, Mr. Crewe, it’s very good of you,” said Rolfe, 
with the covetousness of the collector shining in his eyes. 

“Nonsense ! Why shouldn’t you have it ? But I didn’t 
come round here solely to talk about stamps, Rolfe. I 
came to have a little chat about the Riversbrook case. 
How are you getting on with it?” 

“Why, really,” said Rolfe, “I’ve not done much with it 
since, since ” 

“Since Birchill was acquitted, eh ! But you are not let- 
ting it drop altogether, are you ? That would be a pity — 
such an interesting case. Whom have you your eye on 
now as the right man?” 

Rolfe, who thought he detected a suspicion of banter 
in Crewe’s remarks, evaded the latter question by an- 
swering the first part of Crewe’s inquiry. 

“Why hardly that, Mr. Crewe. But the chief is not 
very keen on the case. Birchill’s acquittal was too much 
of a blow to him. He reckons that nowadays juries are 
too soft-hearted to convict on a capital charge.” 

“It’s just as well that they are too soft-hearted to con- 
vict the wrong man,” said Crewe. 

“Yes ; you told me from the first that we were on the 
wrong track,” was the reply. “I haven’t forgotten that 
and the chief is not allowed to forget it, either. All the 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


253 


men at the Yard know that you held the opinion that we 
had got hold of the wrong man when we arrested Birchill, 
and he has had to stand so much chaff in the office, that 
he's pretty raw about it.” Rolfe spoke in the detached 
tone of a junior who had no share in his chief s mis- 
takes or their attendant humiliation, and he added, 
“That's once more that you’ve scored over Scotland Yard, 
Mr. Crewe, and you ought to be proud of it.” He 
glanced covertly at Crewe to see how he took the flat- 
tery. 

“So you've done very little about the case since Birchill 
was acquitted?” was his only remark. 

“I've been so busy,” replied Rolfe, again evading the 
question, and avoiding meeting Crewe's glance by turning 
over the leaves of his stamp album. “You see, there has 
been a rush of work at Scotland Yard lately. There 
is that big burglary at Lord Emden's, and the case of the 
woman whose body was found in the river lock at Pey- 
ton, and half a dozen other cases, all important in their 
way. There has been quite an epidemic of crime lately, 
as you know, Mr. Crewe. I don’t seem to get a minute 
to myself these times.” 

“Rolfe,” said Crewe drily, “you protest too much. 
You don't suppose that after coming over here to see you 
that I can be deceived by such talk?” 

Rolfe flushed at these uncompromising words, but be- 
fore he could speak Crewe proceeded in a milder tone. 

“I don't blame you a bit for trying to put me off. It's 
all part of the game. We’re rivals, in a sense, and 
you are quite right not to lose sight of that fact. But as 
a detective, Rolfe, your methods lack polish. Really, I 
blush for them. You might have known that I came 
over here to see you to-night because I had an important 
object in view, and you should have tried to find out what 
it was before playing your own cards, — and such cards, 
too ! You’re sadly lacking in finesse, Rolfe. You’d never 
make a chess player ; your concealed intentions are too 


254 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


easily discovered. You must try not to be so transparent 
if you want to succeed in your profession.” 

Crewe delivered his reproof with such good humour 
that Rolfe stared at him, as if unable to make out what 
his visitor was driving at. 

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Mr. Crewe,” 
he said at length. 

“Oh, yes, you do. You know I’m speaking about your 
latest move in the Riversbrook case, which you’ve been 
so busy with of late. And I’ve come to tell you in a 
friendly way that once more you’re on the wrong track.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Rolfe quickly. 

“Why, Princes Gate, of course,” replied Crewe cheer- 
ily. “You don’t suppose that a fine-looking young 
man like yourself could be seen in the neighbourhood of 
Princes Gate without causing a flutter among feminine 
hearts there, do you?” 

“So the servants have been talking, have they?” mut- 
tered Rolfe. 

“They have and they haven’t. But that’s beside the 
point. What I want to say is that you’re on the wrong 
track in suspecting Mrs. Holymead, and I strongly ad- 
vise you to drop your inquiries if you don’t want to get 
yourself into hot water. She’s as innocent of the mur- 
der of Sir Horace Fewbanks as Birchill is, but you can- 
not afford to make a false shot in the case of a lady of 
her social standing, as you did with a criminal like 
Birchill.” 

At this rebuke Rolfe gave way to irritation. 

“Look here, Mr. Crewe, I’ll thank you to mind your 
own business,” he said. “It’s got nothing to do with 
you where I make inquiries. I’ll have you remember 
that! I don’t interfere with you, and I won’t have you 
interfering with me.” 

“But I’m interfering only for your own good, man ! 
What do you suppose I’m doing it for? I tell you you’re 
riding for a very bad fall in suspecting Mrs. Holymead 
and shadowing her.” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


255 


Crewe’s plain words were an echo of a secret fear 
which Rolfe had entertained from the time, his suspicions 
were directed towards Mrs. Holymead. But he was not 
going to allow Crewe to think he was alarmed. 

“If I’m making inquiries about Mrs. Plolymead, it’s 
because I have ample justification for doing so,” he said 
stiffly. 

“And I tell you that you have not.” 

“Prove it !” exclaimed Rolfe defiantly. 

Crewe produced from his pocket a revolver and a lady’s 
handkerchief, and handed them to Rolfe without speak- 
ing. 

Rolfe’s embarrassment was almost equal to his aston- 
ishment as he examined the articles. In the handker- 
chief with its missing corner, he speedily recognised 
something for which he had searched in vain. He had 
never confided to Crewe the discovery of the missing 
corner in the dead man’s hand, and therefore the pro- 
duction of the handkerchief by Crewe considerably em- 
barrassed him. He longed to ask Crewe how he had 
obtained possession of the handkerchief, but he could not 
trust his voice to frame the question without betraying his 
feelings, so he picked up the revolver and examined it 
closely. Then he put it down and again gave his atten- 
tion to the handkerchief, bending his head over it so that 
Crewe should not see his face. 

“You do not seem very astonished at my finds, Rolfe,” 
said Crewe quizzically. “Perhaps you’ve seen these ar- 
ticles before?” 

“No, I haven’t,” said Rolfe, still avoiding his visitor’s 
eye. 

“Well, the torn handkerchief is not exactly new to 
you,” said Crewe. “You’ve got the missing part; you 
found it in Sir Horace’s hand after he was murdered.” 

“You’re too clever for me, and that’s the simple truth, 
Mr. Crewe,” said Rolfe, in a mortified tone. “I did find 
a small piece of a lady’s handkerchief in his hand, and 
here it is.” He produced his pocket-book and took out 


256 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

the piece. “How you found out I had it, is more than 
I know.” 

“Mere guess-work,” said Crewe. 

Rolfe shook his head slowly. 

“I know better than that,” he said. “You’re deep. 
You don’t miss much. I wish now that I had told you 
about that bit of handkerchief at the first. But Chippen- 
field and I wanted to have all the credit of elucidating the 
Riversbrook mystery. I hunted high and low to get trace 
of this handkerchief, but I couldn’t. And now you’ve 
beaten me, although you couldn’t have known at first that 
there was such a thing as a missing handkerchief in the 
case. I hope you bear me no malice, Mr. Crewe.” 

“What for, Rolfe?” 

“For not telling you about the handkerchief, after I 
found this piece in Sir Horace’s hand.” 

“Not in the least,” said Crewe. “Why should you 
have told me? I don’t tell you everything that I find 
out. It’s all part of the game. That piece of the hand- 
kerchief was a good find, Rolfe, and I congratulate you 
on getting it. How did you come to discover it ?” 

“I was trying to force open the murdered man’s hand, 
and I found it clenched between the little finger and the 
next. Of course it was not visible with his hand closed. 
Chippenfield, who missed it, didn’t half like my discovery, 
and all along he underestimated the value of it as a 
clue.” 

“Well, he has had to pay for his folly.” 

“He has, and serves him right,” replied Rolfe viciously. 
“He’s the moat pig-headed, obstinate, vain, narrow- 
minded man you could come across.” It occurred to 
Rolfe that it was not exactly good form on his part to 
condemn his superior officer so vigorously in the presence 
of a rival, so he broke off abruptly and asked Crewe how 
he came into possession of the revolver and handker- 
chief. 

Crewe’s reply was that he had obtained these articles 
under a promise of secrecy from some one who had as- 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


257 


sured him that Mrs. Holymead had no connection with 
the crime. When he was at liberty to tell the story as it 
had been told to him, Rolfe would be the first to hear it. 

“Mrs. Holymead had no connection with the crime ?” 
exclaimed Rolfe impatiently. “Perhaps you don't know 
that the morning after the murder was discovered she 
went out to Riversbrook and removed some secret papers 
from the murdered man’s desk — papers that he had been 
in the habit of hiding in a secret drawer?” 

“Yes, I know that,” said Crewe. 

“Well, doesn’t that look as if she knew something 
about the crime ?” 

“Not necessarily.” 

“Well, to me it does. What were these secret papers? 
They were letters, I am told.” 

“I believe so. And you, Rolfe, as a man of the world, 
know that a married woman would not like the police to 
get possession of letters she had written to a man of the 
reputation of Sir Horace Fewbanks.” 

“I admit that her action is capable of a comparatively 
innocent interpretation, but taken in conjunction with 
other things it looks to me mighty suspicious. In Hill’s 
statement to us he told us that on the night of the mur- 
der, Birchill when hiding in the garden waiting for the 
lights to go out before breaking into the house, heard 
the front door slam and saw a stylish sort of woman 
walk down the path to the gate.” 

“That was not Mrs. Holymead,” said Crewe. 

“How do you know? If it was not her, who was it? 
Do you know?” 

“I think I know, and when I am at liberty to speak 
I will tell you.” 

“Then there is a third point,” continued Rolfe. “Look 
at this handkerchief you brought., I saw a handker- 
chief of exactly similar pattern at Mrs. Holymead’s 
house when I called there.” 

“Wasn’t that the property of her French cousin, Made- 
moiselle Chiron?” 


258 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


“Yes, she dropped it on the floor while I was there. 
But it is probable the handkerchief was one of a set 
given her by Mrs. Holymead. ,, 

“Quite probably, Rolfe. But scores of ladies who are 
fond of expensive things have handkerchiefs of a simi- 
lar pattern. You will find if you inquire among the 
West End shops, that although it is a dainty, expensive 
article from the man’s point of view, there is nothing 
singular about the quality or the pattern.” 

“Perhaps so,” said Rolfe, “but the possession of hand- 
kerchiefs of this kind is surely suspicious when taken in 
conjunction with her removal of the letters. I wish I 
could get hold of that infernal scoundrel Hill again. I am 
convinced that he knows a great deal more about this 
murder than he has yet told us, and a great deal more 
about Mrs. Holymead and her letters. I’ve had his shop 
watched day and night since he disappeared, but he 
keeps close to his burrow, and I’ve not been able to get 
on his track.” 

“I’d give up watching for him if I were you,” said 
Crewe, as he flicked the ash of his cigar into the fire- 
place. “You’re not likely to find him now. As a mat- 
ter of fact, he has left the country.” 

“Hill left the country?” echoed Rolfe. “I think you 
are mistaken there, Mr. Crewe. He had no money ; how 
could he get away?” 

Crewe selected another cigar from his case and lighted 
it before answering. 

“The fact is, I advanced him the money,” he said. 
“Technically it’s a loan, but I do not think any of it will 
be paid back.” 

Rolfe stared hard at Crewe to see if he was joking. 

“What on earth made you do that ?” he demanded at 
length. “Hill may be the actual murderer for all we 
know.” 

“Not at all,” was the reply. “Before I helped him to 
leave England I satisfied myself that he had absolutely 
nothing to do with the murder. He does not know who 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


259 

shot Sir Horace Fewbanks, though, of course, he still 
half believes that it was Birchill. When I got in touch 
with him after his disappearance he was in a pitiable state 
of fright-waking or sleeping, he couldn’t get his mind 
off the gallows. There were two or three points on 
which I wanted his assistance in clearing up the Rivers- 
brook case, and I promised to get him out of the country 
if he would make a clean breast of things and tell me 
the truth as far as he knew it. He made a confession — 
a true one this time. I took it down and I’ll let you 
have a copy. There are a few interesting points on 
which it differs materially from the statement he made 
to the police when you and Chippenfield cornered him.” 

“What are they?” asked Rolfe. 

“In the first place the burglary was his idea, and 
not Birchill’s,” replied Crewe. “After the quarrel be- 
tween Sir Horace and the girl Fanning, he went out to 
her flat and suggested to Birchill that he should rob 
Riversbrook. Hill’s real object in arranging this bur- 
glary was to get possession of the letters which Mrs. 
Holymead subsequently removed, but he did not tell 
Birchill this. His plan was to go to Riversbrook the 
morning after the burglary and then break open Sir 
Horace’s desk and open the secret drawer before inform- 
ing the police of the burglary. To the police and Sir 
Horace it would look as though the burglar had acci- 
dentally found the spring of the secret drawer. With 
these letters in his possession Hill intended to blackmail 
Sir Horace, or Mrs. Holymead, without disclosing himself 
in the transaction. 

“When Sir Horace returned unexpectedly from Scot- 
land on the 18th of August, Hill had just removed the 
letters from the desk, being afraid that when Birchill 
broke into the house he might find them accidentally. He 
was naturally in a state of alarm at Sir Horace’s return. 
He tried to get an opportunity to put the letters back as 
Sir Horace might discover they had been removed, but 
Sir Horace dismissed Jbk for the night before he could 


26 o 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


get such an opportunity. Then he went to Fanning’s flat 
and told Birchill that Sir Horace had returned. Birchill 
was in favour of postponing the burglary, but Hill, who 
had possession of the letters, and did not know when he 
would get an opportunity to put them back, urged Birchill 
to carry out the burglary. He assured Birchill that Sir 
Horace was a very sound sleeper and that there would 
be no risk. In order to arouse Birchill’s cupidity and 
to protect himself from the suspicions of Sir Horace 
regarding the letters, he told Birchill that he had seen a 
large sum of money in his possession when he returned, 
and that this money would probably be hidden in the 
secret drawer of the desk, until Sir Horace had an oppor- 
tunity of banking it. He told Birchill to break open the 
desk, and explained to him how to find the spring of the 
secret drawer.” 

“What a damned cunning scoundrel he is,” exclaimed 
Rolfe, in unwilling admiration of the completeness of 
Hill’s scheme. “Don’t you think, Mr. Crewe, that, after 
all, he may be the actual murderer — that he told you a 
lot of lies just as he did to us? Holymead in his ad- 
dress to the jury made out a pretty strong case against 
him.” 

“No one knows better than Holymead that Hill did not 
commit the murder,” said Crewe. “Hill is an incorrigible 
liar, but he has no nerve for murder.” 

“Did he put the letters back?” asked Rolfe. “He told 
me that Mrs. Holymead stole them the day after the 
murder was discovered. But he is such a liar ” 

“I believe he spoke the truth in that case,” said Crewe. 
“He told me he put the letters back in the secret drawer 
the night after the murder, when he went to Rivers- 
brook to report himself to Chippenfield. He put them 
back because he was afraid that if the police found them 
in his possession, they would think he had a hand in the 
murder. His idea was to remove them from the secret 
drawer after the excitement about the murder died down, 
and then blackmail Mrs. Holymead, but she acted with a. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 261 

skill and decision that robbed him of his chance to black- 
mail her.” 

“How did you get hold of the cunning scoundrel?” 
asked Rolfe. “I’ve had his wife’s shop watched day 
and night, as I’ve said. I made sure he would try to com- 
municate with her sooner or later, but he didn’t.” 

“It was Joe who found him,” said Crewe. “I knew you 
were watching Mrs. Hill’s shop, so it was superfluous for 
me to set anybody to watch it. Besides, I didn’t think Hill 
would visit his wife or attempt to communicate with her, 
for he would think that the police, if they wanted him, 
would be sure to watch the shop. I tried to consider what 
a man like Hill would do in the circumstances. He had 
no money — I knew that — and, so far as I was able to 
ascertain, he had no friends who were likely to hide 
him. Without friends or money he could not go very 
far. Finally it occurred to me that he might be hiding 
somewhere in Riversbrook — either in that unfinished por- 
tion of the third floor, or in one of the outbuildings. He 
knew the run of the rambling old place so well. Have 
you ever been over it carefully? No. Well, there are 
several good places in the upper stories where a man 
might conceal himself. I put Joe on the job, and after 
watching for several nights Joe got him. Hill had made 
a hiding place in the loft above the garage. It appears 
that he subsisted on the stores that had been left in the 
house; he was able to make his way into the main 
building through one of the kitchen windows. He was 
on one of these foraging expeditions when Joe discov- 
ered him — emaciated, dirty, and half demented through 
terror of the gallows.” 

“So that is how you got him!” said Rolfe. “I never 
thought of looking for him at Riversbrook. Sometimes 
I am inclined to agree with you that he had no nerve 
for murder. But an unpremeditated murder doesn’t want 
much nerve. He might have done it in a moment of pas- 
sion.” Rolfe was endeavouring to take advantage of 
Crewe’s communicative mood and to arrive by a process 


262 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


of elimination at the person against whom Crewe had 
accumulated his evidence. 

"It was not Hill,” said Crewe. “The murder was 
committed in a moment of passion, and yet it was far 
from being unpremeditated.” 

“You are trying to mystify me,” said Rolfe despair- 
ingly. 

“No; it is the case itself which has mystified you,” 
replied Crewe. 

“It has,” was Rolfe’s candid confession. “The more 
thought I give it, the more impossible it seems to see 
through it. Was Sir Horace killed before dusk — before 
the lights were turned on? If he was killed after dark, 
who turned out the lights ?” 

“He was killed between 10 and 10.30 at night,” said 
Crewe. “The lights were turned out by the woman 
Birchill saw leaving the house about 10.30. But she was 
not the murderer, and she was not present in the room, or 
even in the house, when Sir Horace was shot. She 
arrived a few minutes too late to prevent the tragedy. 
Turning out the lights was an instinctive act due to her 
desire to hide the crime, or rather to hide the mur- 
derer.” 

“How do you know all this?” asked Rolfe, who had 
been staring at Crewe with open-mouthed astonishment. 

“That woman was not Mrs. Holymead,” continued 
Crewe. “I had a visit to-day from the woman who did 
these things, and as evidence of the truth of her story 
she,brought me the revolver and the handkerchief.” 

“What did she come to you for?” asked Rolfe, with 
breathless interest. “What did she want?” 

“She came to .me to make a full confession,” said 
Crewe, in even tones. 

“A confession !” exclaimed Rolfe. “She ought to have 
come to the police. Why didn’t she come to us ?” 

Crewe smiled at the puzzled, indignant detective. 

“I think she came to me because she wanted to mislead 
me,” he said. 


CHAPTER XXV 


Joe Leaver, worn out after nearly a week’s work of 
watching the movements of Mr. Holymead, had fallen 
asleep in an empty loft above a garage which over- 
looked Verney’s Hotel in Mayfair. He had seen Mr. 
Holymead disappear into the hotel, and he knew from 
the experience gained in his watch that the K.C. would 
spend the next couple of hours in dressing for dinner, 
sitting down to that meal, and smoking a cigar in the 
lounge. So Joe had relaxed, for the time being, the new 
task which his master had set him, and had flung him- 
self on some straw in the loft to rest. He did not intend 
to go to sleep, but he was very tired, and in a few min- 
utes he was in a profound slumber. 

In his sleep Joe dreamed that he had attained the 
summit of his ambition, and was being paid a huge 
salary by an American film company to display himself 
in emotional dramas for the educational improvement of 
the British working classes. In his dream he had to 
rescue the heroine from the clutches of the villains who 
had carried her off. They had imprisoned her at the 
top of a “skyscraper” building and locked the lift, but Joe 
climbed the fire escape and caught the beautiful girl in 
his arms. The villains, who were on the watch, set fire 
to the building, and when Joe attempted to climb out of 
the window with the heroine clinging round his neck, the 
flames drove him back. As he stood there the wind swept 
a sheet of flame towards Joe until it scorched his face. 
The pain was so real that Joe opened his eyes and sprang 
up with a cry. 

A man was standing over him, a man past middle age, 
short and broad in figure, whose clean-shaven face 
263 


264 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

directed attention to his protruding jaw. He was wear- 
ing a blue serge suit which had seen much use. 

“You are a sound sleeper, sonny,” said the man, grin- 
ning at Joe's alarm. “But when you wake — why you 
wake up properly; I’ll say that for you. You nearly 
broke my pipe, you woke up that sudden.” 

He made this remark with such a malicious grin that 
Joe, whose face was still smarting, had no hesitation in 
connecting his sudden awakening with the hot bowl of 
the man’s pipe. It was a joke Joe had often seen played 
on drunken men in Islington public-houses in his young 
days. 

“You just leave me alone, will you?” he said, rubbing 
his cheek ruefully. “It’s nothing to do with you whether 
I’m a sound sleeper or not.” 

“That’s just where you’re wrong, young fellow,” was 
the reply. “It’s a lot to do with me. Ain’t your name Joe 
Leaver ?” 

Joe nodded his head. 

“How did you find out?” he asked. 

“Perhaps a friend of mine pointed you out to me.” 

“Perhaps he did, and perhaps he didn’t,” said Joe. 
“Anyway, what is your name ?” 

“Mr. Kemp is my name, my boy. And unless you’re 
pretty civil I’ll give you cause to remember it.” 

“What have you got to do with me ?” asked the boy in 
an injured tone. “I’ve never done nothing to you.” 

“You mind your P’s and Q’s and me and you’ll get 
along all right,” said Mr. Kemp, in a somewhat softer 
tone. “When you ask me what I’ve got to do with 
you, my answer is I’ve got a lot to do with you, for I’m 
your guardian, so to speak.” 

Joe looked at Mr. Kemp with a gleam of comprehen- 
sion in his amazement. He had had some experience in 
his Islington days of the strange phenomena produced 
by drink. 

“Rats !” he retorted rudely. “I’ve never had a guardian 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 265 

and I don’t want none. What made you a guardian, I’d 
like to know ?” 

“Your father did,” was the reply. 

“Oh, him!” said Joe, in a tone which indicated pro- 
nounced antipathy to his parent. “Do you know him? 
Are you one of his sort?” 

“Now don’t try to be insulting, my boy, or I’ll take you 
across my knee. We won’t say nothing about where 
your father is, because in high society Wormwood 
Scrubbs isn’t mentioned. All we’ll say is that he has 
been unfortunate like many another man before him, 
and that for the present he can’t come and go as he 
likes. But he has still got a father’s heart, Joe, and there 
are times when he worries about his family and about 
there being no one with them to keep an eye on them 
and see they grow up a credit to him. He has been 
particularly worried about you, Joe. So when I was 
coming away he asked me to look you up if I had 
time, and let him know how you was getting on, seeing 
that none of his family has gone near him for a matter 
of three years or so, though there is one regular visiting 
day each week.” 

“I don’t want to see him no more,” said Joe. “He’s 
no good.” 

“That’s a nice way for a boy to talk about his own 
father,” said Mr. Kemp, in a reproving tone. “I don’t 
know what the young generation is coming to.” 

“If you want to send him word about me, you can tell 
him that I’m not going to be a thief,” said Joe defiantly. 

“No,” said Mr. Kemp tauntingly, “you’d sooner be 
a nark.” 

“Yes, I would,” said the boy. 

“And that’s what you are now,” declared the man 
wrathfully. “You’re a nark for that fellow Crewe. I 
know all about you.” 

“I’m earning an honest living,” said Joe. 

“As a nark,” said Mr. Kemp, with a sneer. 

“I’m earning an honest living,” said the boy doggedly. 


266 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


So much of his youth had been spent among the crim- 
inal classes that he still retained the feeling that there 
was an indelible stigma attached to those individuals 
described as narks. 

“How can any one earn a respectable honest living by 
being a nark?” asked Mr. Kemp contemptuously. “And 
more than that, it’s one of the best men that ever 
breathed that you are a-spying on. I’ll have you know 
that he’s a friend of mine. That is to say he’s done things 
for me that I ain’t likely to forget. There’s nothing 
I won’t do for him, if the chance comes my way. I’ll 
see that no harm happens to him through you and your 
Mr. Crewe. You’ve got to stop this here spying. Stop it 
at once, do you understand? For if you don’t, by God, 
I’ll deal with you so that you’ll do no more spying in this 
world! And I’d have you and your master know that 
I’m a man what means what he says.” Mr. Kemp shook 
his fist angrily at Joe as he moved away to the door of 
the loft after having delivered his menacing warning. 
“My last words to you is, Stop it!” he said, as he 
turned to go down the stairs. 

Half an hour later Mr. Kemp entered the lounge of 
Verney’s Hotel as though in quest of some one. Most 
of the hotel guests had finished their after-dinner coffee 
and liqueurs, and the hall was comparatively empty, but a 
few who remained raised their eyes in well-bred protest 
at the intrusion of a member of the lower orders into 
the corridor of an exclusive hotel. Mr. Kemp felt 
somewhat out of place, and he stared about the luxu- 
riously furnished lounge with a look in which awe 
mingled with admiration. Before he could advance fur- 
ther, a liveried porter of massive proportions came up 
to him and barred the way. 

“Now, now, my man,” said the porter haughtily, “what 
do you think you are doing here? This ain’t your 
place, you know. You’ve made a mistake. Out you go.” 

“I want to see Mr. Holymead,” said Mr. Kemp in 
a gruff voice. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 267 

Vemey’s was such a high-class hotel that seedy-looking 
persons seldom dared to put a foot within the palatial 
entrance. The porter, unused to dealing with the ob- 
trusive impecunious type to which he believed Mr. 
Kemp to belong, made the mistake of trying to argue 
with him. 

“Want to see Mr. Holymead?” he repeated. “How 
do you know he’s here? Who told you? What do 
you want to see him for?” 

“What’s that got to do with you?” retorted Mr. Kemp. 
“You don’t think Mr. Holymead would like me to discuss 
his business with the likes of you? That ain’t what 
you’re here for. You go and tell Mr. Holymead that 
some one wants to see him. Tell him Mr. Kemp wants 
to see him.” Mr. Kemp drew himself up and buttoned 
the coat of his faded serge suit. 

The porter, uncertain how to deal with the situation, 
looked around for help. The manager of the hotel 
emerged from the booking office at that moment, and the 
porter’s appealing look was seen by him. The manager 
approached. He was faultlessly attired, suave in de- 
meanour, and walked with a noiseless step, despite his 
tendency to corpulence. It was his daily task to wrestle 
with some of the manifold difficulties arising out of the 
eccentricities of human nature as exhibited by a constant 
stream of arriving and departing guests. But though he 
approached the distressed porter with full confidence in 
his ability to deal with any situation, his eyebrows arched 
in astonishment as he took in the full details of the in- 
truder’s attire. 

“What does this mean, Hawkins?” he exclaimed, in a 
tone of disapproval. 

The porter trembled at the implication that he had 
grievously failed in his duty by allowing such an indi- 
vidual as Mr. Kemp to get so far within the exclusive 
portals of Verney’s, and in his nervousness he relaxed 
from the polish of the hotel porter to his native cockney. 


268 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


“This 'ere party says ’e wants to see Mr. Holymead, 
Sir." 

The manager went through the motion of washing a 
spotlessly clean pair of hands, and then brought the palms 
together in a gentle clap. He smiled pityingly at Hawkins 
and then looked condescendingly at Mr. Kemp. 

“Wants to see Mr. Holymead, does he?” he said, trans- 
ferring his glance to the worried porter. “And didn’t 
you tell him that Mr. Holymead has gone to the theatre 
and won’t be back for some considerable time ?” 

“That’s a lie!” said Mr. Kemp, who had acquired 
none of the art of dealing with his fellow men, and 
was too uneducated to appreciate art in any form. “I’ve 
been watching over the other side of the street, and I 
saw him passing a window not ten minutes ago. I’m 
going to see him if I wait here all night. I’ll soon make 
meself comfortable on one of them big chairs.” He 
pointed to an empty chair beside a man in evening dress, 
who was holding a conversation with a haughty looking 
matron. “You tell Mr. Holymead Mr. Kemp wants to 
see him,” he said to the manager. 

“What name did you say?” asked the manager in a 
tone which seemed to express astonishment that the 
lower orders had names. 

“Mr. Kemp. You tell him Mr. Kemp wants to see 
him on important business.” He walked towards the va- 
cant chair and seated himself on it. He dug his toes into 
the velvet pile carpet with the air of a man who was 
trying to take anchor. Fortunately the man on the ad- 
joining chair, and the haughty matron, were so engrossed 
in their conversation that they did not notice that the 
air in their immediate vicinity was being polluted by the 
presence of a man in shabby clothes and heavy boots. 

The manager despatched the porter in search of Mr. 
Holymead and then went in pursuit of Mr. Kemp. 

“Will you come this way, if you please, Mr. Kemp?” 
he said, with a low bow. 

He saw that Mr. Kemp was following him and 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


269 

led the way into an unfrequented corner of the smoking 
room, where, with the information that Mr. Holymead 
would come to him in a few moments, he asked Mr. 
Kemp to be seated. 

The manager withdrew a few yards, and then took 
up a position which enabled him to guard the hotel 
guests from having their digestions interfered with by 
the contaminating spectacle of a seedy man. To the man- 
ager’s great relief, Mr. Holymead appeared, having been 
informed by the hall porter that a party who said his name 
was Kemp had asked to see him. The manager hurried 
towards Mr. Holymead and endeavoured to explain and 
apologise, but the K.C. assured him that there was nothing 
to apologise for. He went over to the corner of the smok- 
ing room, where the visitor who had caused so much per- 
turbation was waiting for him. 

“Well, Kemp, what do you want?” There was nothing 
in his manner to indicate that he was put out by Mr. 
Kemp’s appearance. He spoke in quiet even tones such 
as would seem to suggest that he was well acquainted 
with his visitor. 

“Can I speak to you on the quiet for a moment, sir?” 
whispered Kemp hoarsely. 

Holymead looked round the room. The manager had 
gone back to the booking office and Hawkins had van- 
ished. The few people who were in the room seemed 
occupied with their own affairs. 

“No one will overhear us if we speak quietly,” he said 
as he took a seat close to Kemp. “What is it ?” 

“You’re watched and followed, sir,” said Kemp in a 
whisper. “Somebody has been watching this place for 
days past and whenever you go out you’re followed.” 

“By whofn?” asked Holymead. 

“By a varmint of a boy — a slippery young imp whose 
father’s in gaol for a long stretch. I got hold of him 
this afternoon and told him what I’d do to him if he 
kept on with his game. He’s living in an old loft at the 
back of the hotel garage, and he keeps a watch on you 


270 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


day and night. I thought I’d better come here and tell 
you, as you mightn’t know about him.” 

“You did quite right, Kemp. What’s this boy like?” 

“An undersized putty-faced brat with a big head. He’s 
about fourteen or fifteen, I should say.” 

“Who is he? Do you know him?” 

“Leaver is the name, sir. To tell you the truth, I 
don’t know him as well as I know his father. His father 
is a 'lifer’ for manslaughter. I’ve known him both in 
and out of gaol. And when I was coming out four 
months ago Bob Leaver, this here boy’s father, asked 
me to look up his family and send him word about them. 
I went to the address Bob told me, in Islington, but I 
found they had all gone. The mother was dead and the 
kids — a girl and this here boy — had cleared out. The 
old Jew who had the second-hand clothes shop Mrs. 
Leaver used to keep told me that the boy had gone off 
with that private detective, Crewe, more than two years 
ago. So it looks to me as if he has turned nark and 
Crewe has put him on to watch you.” 

“Can you describe this boy more closely?” 

“Well, sir, I don’t know if I can say anything more 
about him except that he has red hair and big bright 
eyes that are too large for his face.” 

“I thought so,” said Holymead as if speaking to him- 
self. “It’s the same boy.” 

“What did you say, sir?” asked Kemp. 

“Nothing, Kemp, except that I think I’ve seen a boy 
of this description hanging about the street near the 
hotel.” 

Holymead rose to his feet as he spoke, as an indica- 
tion that the interview was at an end. Kemp got up 
and looked at him anxiously. 

“I beg your pardon, sir, for coming here,” he said, 
fumbling with the rim of his hat as he spoke. “I didn’t 
know how you’d take it, but I hope I’ve done right. 
They didn’t want to let me see you.” 

“You did quite right, Kemp. I am very much obliged 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 271 

to you.” He was feeling in his pocket for silver, but 
Kemp stopped him. 

“No, no, sir. I don’t want to be paid anything. I 
wanted to oblige you like; I wanted to do you a good 
turn. I’d do anything for you, sir — you know I would.” 

“I believe you would, Kemp. Good night.” 

“Good night, sir.” 

As Kemp passed down the hall he met the manager, 
who was obviously pleased to see such an unwelcome 
visitor making his departure. Kemp scowled at the 
manager as if he were a valued patron of the hotel 
and said, “It seems to me that you don’t know how to 
treat people properly when they come here.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


It was the first occasion on which Mrs. Holymead 
had visited her husband’s chambers in the Middle Tem- 
ple. Mr. Mattingford, who had been Mr. Holymead’s 
clerk for nearly twenty years, seemed to realise that the 
visit was important, though as a married man he knew 
that a meeting between husband and wife in town was 
usually so commonplace as to verge on boredom for 
the husband. There were occasions when he had to 
meet Mrs. Mattingford, but these meetings were gen- 
erally for the purpose of handing over to the lady her 
weekly dress allowance of ten shillings out of his sal- 
ary, so that she might attend the sales at the big drapery 
shops in the West End and inspect the windows con- 
taining expensive articles that she could not hope to 
buy. Mr. Mattingford was an exceedingly thrifty man, 
and his wife possessed some of the qualities of a spend- 
thrift. Thus it came about that Mr. Mattingford kept 
up the fiction that he had no savings and that each 
week’s salary must see him through till the next week. 
Mrs. Mattingford knew that her husband had saved 
money, and theoretically she would have given a great 
deal to know how much. She repeatedly accused him 
of being a miser, but this is a wifely denunciation which 
in all classes of life is lightly made when the purchase 
of feminine finery is under discussion. There are some 
men who resent it, but Mr. Mattingford was not one 
of these. Protests and prayers, abuse and cajolery, were 
alike powerless to win his consent to his wife’s perpetual 
proposal that she should be allowed to draw her dress 
allowance for some months, or even some weeks ahead. 
Mr. Mattingford had a horror of bad debts. He en- 
deavoured to show his wife that the transaction she 
272 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


273 


proposed was unsound from a business point of view 
and reckless from a legal point of view. She had no 
security to offer for the repayment of the advance — 
even if he were in a financial position to make the ad- 
vance — and he stoutly declared that he was not. She 
might die at any moment, and then he would be left 
with no means of redress against her estate because she 
had no estate. Of course, if she first insured her life 
out of her dress allowance and handed the policy to 
him it would constitute protection for the repayment of 
the advance, in the event of her death, but it was not 
any real protection in the event of her continuing to live, 
for a newly-executed policy had no surrender value. As 
his own legal adviser, Mr. Mattingford strongly urged 
himself not to consider his wife's proposal, and such 
was his respect for the law and for those who had been 
brought up in a legal atmosphere that he had no hesi- 
tation in accepting the advice. 

He was a little man of nearly fifty years, with a 
very bald head and an extremely long moustache, which 
when waxed at the ends made him look as fierce as a 
clipped poodle. He knew Mrs. Holymead from his hav- 
ing called frequently at his chief’s house in Princes Gate 
on business matters, and he admired her for her good 
looks, but still more for her good taste in staying away 
from her husband’s chambers. There were some ladies, 
the wives of barristers, who almost haunted their hus- 
bands’ chambers — a practice of which Mr. Mattingford 
strongly disapproved. It seemed to him an insidious 
attempt on the part of an insidious sex to force the 
legal profession to throw open its doors to women. 
As a man who lived in the mouldy atmosphere of prece- 
dent, Mr. Mattingford hated the idea of change, and to 
him the thought of a lady in wig and gown pleading 
in the law courts indicated not merely change but a 
revolution which might well usher in the end of the 
world. So strict was he in keeping the precincts of 
the law sacred from the violating tread of women that 


274 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


he never allowed his wife to set foot in the Middle 
Temple. Their meetings on those urgent occasions when 
Mrs. Mattingford came to town for her dress allowance 
in order to go bargain-hunting took place at one of the 
cheap tearooms in Fleet Street. 

Although Mr. Mattingford was somewhat flustered by 
the unexpected appearance of Mrs. Holymead, he did not 
depart from precedent to the extent of regarding her 
as entitled to any other treatment than that accorded to 
clients who called on business. He asked her if she 
wanted to see ]\frr. Holymead, placed a chair for her, 
then knocked deferentially at his chief’s door, went in- 
side to announce Mrs. Holymead to her husband, and 
came out with the information that Mr. Holymead would 
see her. He held open the door leading into his chief’s 
private room, and after Mrs. Holymead had entered 
closed it softly and firmly. 

But the formal business manner of Mr. Mattingford 
to his chief’s wife seemed to her friendly and cordial 
compared with the strained greetings she received from 
her husband. He motioned her to a chair and then got 
up from his own. 

“I wrote to you to come and see me here instead of 
going to the house to see you,” he said, '‘because I thought 
it would be better for both. It would have given the 
servants something to talk about. I hope you don’t 
mind ?” 

She looked at him with her large dark eyes in which 
there was more than a suggestion^ tears. What she 
had read into his note, when she received it, was his de- 
termination not to go to his home to see her for fear 
she would interpret that as a first step towards recon- 
ciliation. 

“What I wanted to speak to you about is this detec- 
tive Crewe whom Miss Fewbanks has employed in con- 
nection with her father’s death,” he continued. 

Her breath came quickly at this unwelcome informa- 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


275 


tion. She noted that he had spoken of Sir Horace’s 
death and not his murder. 

He began pacing backwards and forwards across the 
room as if with the purpose of avoiding looking at her. 

“This man Crewe is a nuisance — I might even say a 
danger. I don’t know what he has found out, but I 
object to his ferreting into my affairs. He must be 
stopped.” 

She nodded her assent, for she could not trust her- 
self to speak. Each time he turned his back on her as 
he crossed the room her eyes followed him, but as he 
faced her she turned her gaze on the floor. 

“There is no legal redress — no legal means of dealing 
with his impertinent curiosity,” he went on. “He is 
within his rights in trying to find out all he can. But if 
he is allowed to go on unchecked the thing may reach 
a disastrous stage. I have no doubt that he knows that 
I was at Riversbrook the night that man was killed. He 
was not long in getting on the track of that. And 
the more mysterious my visit seems to him — and the fact 
that I have not disclosed to the police that I went up 
to Riversbrook and saw Sir Horace on the night of 
the tragedy is to his way of thinking very significant — 
the more reason is there for suspecting me of complicity 
in the crime.” 

When he turned to cross the room her eyes lingered 
on him and she glanced quickly at his face. 

“I don’t want to dwell on matters that must pain you 
— that must pain us both,” he said slowly, “but it is 
necessary that you should be made acquainted with 
the danger that threatens me from this man. I am 
anxious to avoid anything in the nature of a public 
scandal — I am anxious quite as much if not more on your 
account than my own. But if this wretched man is 
allowed to go on trying to build up a case against me 
— and I must admit that he would probably obtain cir- 
cumstantial evidence of a kind which would make some 
sort of a case for the prosecution— there is grave dan- 


276 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


ger of everything coming out. If he went to the length 
of having me arrested and charged with the crime, there 
are bound to be some disclosures and the newspapers 
would make the most of them. It is impossible to fore- 
see the exact nature of them, but I do not see how I 
could adopt any line of defence which would not hint 
at things that are best unrevealed. You yourself might 
be so ill-advised as to tell the whole story in the end. 
Of course, I would try to prevent you, and as far as the 
trial is concerned, I think I could use means to prevent 
you. But if the result was unfavourable — and knowing 
what eccentric things juries do, we must recognise the 
possibility of an unfavourable verdict — you might con- 
sider it advisable to disclose everything in the hope of 
having the conviction quashed by an appeal.” 

For the first time since she had sat down he looked 
at her, and as he caught her upward gaze he flushed. 

“I would tell everything if you were arrested,” she 
said, in a low voice. 

“Ah, so I thought,” he said, in a tone of disapproval. 
“The question now is what means can be adopted to 
prevent a catastrophe. I have thought earnestly about 
it, and as you are almost as much concerned in prevent- 
ing public disclosures as I am, I desired to consult 
you before taking any definite course. It is this man 
Crewe who is the danger, and the question is how are 
we to stop him proceeding to extremes. One way is 
for me to see him and take him into my confidence — to 
explain fully to him what happened. He would not 
be satisfied with less than the full story. If I kept any- 
thing back his suspicions would remain; in fact, they 
would be strengthened. I would have to explain to 
him why and how I induced Sir Horace to return un- 
expectedly from Scotland on that fatal night, and what 
took place at Riversbrook. You will understand why I 
have hesitated to adopt that course. I would not sug- 
gest it to you now except that I see it would save you 
from the danger of something a great deal worse. Of 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


277 

course it would save me from the annoyance of being 
suspected of knowing something about the actual murder, 
but it is your interests that come first in the matter. It 
would be effective in putting an end to all our fears 

all my fears. I would bind him to secrecy, of course. 
I do not ask you to come to a decision immediately, 
but I do ask you to think it over and let me know. I 
have been extremely reluctant to put this proposal be- 
fore you, because I should hate carrying it out, because 
I should hate telling this man of things which are really 
no concern of anyone but ourselves. But I cannot dis- 
guise from myself that it would remove a greater danger. 
I believe the secret would be safe with him. I under- 
stand that in private life he is a gentleman, and that I 
would be safe in taking his word of honour. It would 
not be necessary for him to tell the police — still less to 
tell Miss Fewbanks.” 

“Is there no other way?” she asked. “Have you 
thought of any other way?” 

“Yes. The only other way out that I have been able 
to find is for me to see Miss Fewbanks and ask her 
to withdraw the case from Crewe. I would not tell her 
everything — I would not bring you into it at all. But I 
could tell her that I had had an urgent matter to dis- 
cuss with her father; that he came from Scotland to 
discuss it with me, and that after I left him he was 
murdered. I would tell her that it was quite impos- 
sible for me to disclose what the business was about, 
but that Crewe, having learnt that I had seen her father 
that night, was extremely suspicious. I would ask her 
to accept my word of honour that I had no knowledge 
of who killed her father, and to relieve me of the an- 
noyance of the attentions of this man Crewe. I think 
she would agree to that proposal. That is the other 
way out, and from something which has happened this 
morning I am inclined to think that it is the better and 
quicker course to pursue.” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


278 

She was thinking so deeply that she did not reply. 
At length she became conscious of a long silence. 

“It is very good of you to ask my opinion — to consult 
with me at all. It is you that have everything at stake. 
I would like to do my best, but I think if you gave me 

time Is there any great urgency? Two days at 

most is all I want.” 

“I cannot give you two days,” he replied, with a 
sombre smile. “You must decide to-day — at once — 
otherwise it will be too late.” 

She looked at him with parted lips and alarm in her 
eyes. 

“What do you mean?” she breathed. “What have you 
hidden ? Is the danger immediate ?” 

“I think so. For some days past my movements have 
been dogged by a boy in Crewe’s employ. Nearly a week 
ago I decided, after the worry and anxiety of this — 
this unhappy affair, to go away for a short trip. I 
thought a sea- voyage to America and back might do me 
good and fit me for my work again.” He sighed un- 
consciously, and went on: “Crewe has become ac- 
quainted with my intended departure and has placed his 
own interpretation on it. He assumes that I am seeking 
safety in flight — that I have no intention of coming 
back to England. The result has been that the boy 
Crewe had set to watch my movements has been replaced 
by two men from Scotland Yard — one watching these 
chambers from the front, and the other from the rear.” 
He walked across to the window and glanced quickly 
throligh the curtain. “Yes, they are still here.” 

She sprang from her seat and followed him to the 
window. 

“Where are they?” she gasped. “Show them to me.” 

“There. Do not move the curtain or they will sus- 
pect we are watching them. Look a little to the left, by 
the lamp-post. The other you can catch a glimpse of 
if you look between those two trees.” 

“What does it mean? Why are they waiting?” she 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


279 


burst out. Her face had gone very pale, and her big 
dark eyes glared affrightedly from the window to her hus- 
band. 

“Hush ! I beg you not to lose your self-control ; it is 
essential neither of us should lose our heads,” he said, 
warningly. 

She regained command of herself with an effort, and 
whispered, rather than spoke, with twitching lips: 

“What does the presence of these men mean?” 

“It means that Crewe has already communicated with 
Scotland Yard.” 

“And that you will be arrested for his murder ?” Her 
trembling lips could hardly frame the words. 

“I think so — it’s almost certain. But apparently the 
warrant is not yet issued, or those men would come 
here and arrest me. But they are watching to prevent 
my escape — if I thought of escaping. We may yet have 
a few hours to arrange something, but you must come 
to a prompt decision.” 

“Tell me what to do, and I will do it. Oh, let me help 
you if I can. What is the best thing to do? To see 
Crewe ?” 

“No. I forbid you to see Crewe,” he said harshly. 
“If we decide on that course I will see him myself.” 

“And you may be arrested the moment you go out 
of these chambers,” she returned. “Oh, no, no; that is 
not a good plan — we have not the time. I will go to 
Mabel Fewbanks at once, and beg her, for all our sakes, 
not to allow this to go any further.” 

He shook his head. 

“You must not sacrifice yourself,” he said. “That 
would be foolish.” 

“I will not sacrifice myself. I would tell her just 
what you have told me — that her father came from Scot- 
land to discuss an urgent matter with you, and that 
he was murdered after you left. I feel certain this 
man Crewe is going to extremes without her knowledge 
or consent, and that she will be the first to bury this 


28 o 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


awful thing when she learns that you have been impli- 
cated. Is not this the best thing to do ?” 

“It is,” he reluctantly admitted. “But I do not wish 
you to be mixed up in it at all.” 

“I am not mixing myself up in it — I am too selfish 
for that. But I swear to you if you do not let me do 
this I will confess everything. I know Mabel Few- 
banks, and I repeat, she is not aware of what this man 
Crewe has done. She would not — will not, permit it. 
I shall go down to Dellmere at once.” Her face was 
pale, and her eyes glittered as she looked at her hus- 
band, but she spoke with unnatural self-possession. With 
feverish energy she pulled on a glove she had taken off 
when she entered, and buttoned it. “I will — I shall — ar- 
rive in time. In two hours — in three at most — you will 
hear from me.” 

She passed out into the outer office before her hus- 
band could reply, and closed the door behind her. Mr. 
Mattingford dashed to open the outer door of his room 
leading into the main staircase. He thought Mrs. Holy- 
mead looked strange as she passed him and descended 
the stairs, and he rubbed his hands gleefully. He came 
to the conclusion that she had come in for a cheque for 
£50 as an advance of her dress allowance, and that her 
request had been refused. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


She left her husband’s chambers with her brain in 
a whirl, hardly knowing where she was going until she 
found herself held up with a stream of pedestrians at 
the island intersection of Waterloo Bridge and the Strand. 
She thought the policeman who was regulating the traf- 
fic eyed her curiously, and, more with the object of 
evading his eye than with any set plan in her mind, she 
stepped into an empty taxi-cab which was waiting to 
cross the street. 

“ Where to, ma’am?” asked the driver. 

“Where to?” she repeated vacantly. With an effort 
of will she concentrated her thoughts on the task in 
front of her, and hastily added, “To Victoria, as quick 
as you can. No — wait — driver, firgt take me to the near- 
est bookstall.” 

The taxi-cab took her to a bookstall in the Strand, 
where she got out and purchased a railway guide. As 
the taxi-cab proceeded towards Victoria she hastily turned 
the pages to the trains for Dellmere. She had never 
been to Dellmere, but she had heard from Miss Few- 
banks that her father’s place was reached from a station 
called Horleydene, on the main line to Wennesden, and 
that though there were many through trains, compara- 
tively few stopped at Horleydene. But she was unused 
to time-tables, and found it difficult to grasp the informa- 
tion she required. There was such a bewildering 
diversity of letters at the head of the lists of trains 
for that line, and so many reference notes on different 
pages to be looked up before it was possible to ascer- 
tain with any degree of certainty what trains stopped 
at Horleydene on week-days, that, in her shaken frame 
of mind, with the necessity for hurry haunting her, 
281 


28 2 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


she became confused, and failed to comprehend the per- 
plexing figures. She signalled to the driver to stop, and 
handed him the book. 

“I cannot understand this time-table,” she said, in 
an agitated way. ‘‘Would you find out for me, please, 
when the next train leaves Victoria for Horleydene ?” 

The driver consulted the time-table with a business- 
like air. 

“The next train leaves at 12.40,” he informed her. 
“After that there isn’t another one stopping there till 
4 . 5 .” 

Mrs. Holymead consulted her watch anxiously. 

“It’s almost half-past twelve now. Can you catch the 
12.40?” she asked. 

The driver looked dubious. 

“I’ll try, ma’am, but it’ll take some doing. It depends 
whether I get a clear run at Trafalgar Square.” 

“Try, try!” she cried. “Catch it, and I will double 
your fare.” 

She caught the train with a few seconds to spare. 
She had a first-class compartment to herself, and as 
the train rushed out of London, and the grimy en- 
virons of the metropolis gradually gave place to green 
fields, she endeavoured to compose her mind and col- 
lect her thoughts for her coming interview with the 
daughter of the murdered man. But her mind was in 
such a distraught condition that she could think of no 
plan but to sacrifice herself in order to save her hus- 
band. With cold hands pressed against her hot forehead, 
she muttered again and again, as if offering up an in- 
vocation that gained force by repetition: 

“I must save him. I will tell her everything.” 

The train ran into Horleydene shortly after two, and 
Mrs. Holymead was the only passenger who alighted 
at the lonely little wayside station which stood in a small 
wood in a solitude as profound as though it had been in 
the American prairie, instead of the heart of an English 
county. The only sign of life was a dilapidated vehicle 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 283 

with an elderly man in charge, which stood outside the 
station yard all day waiting for chance visitors. 

“Cab, ma’am?” exclaimed the driver of this vehicle 
in an ingratiating voice, touching his hat. 

“No, thank you,” replied Mrs. Holymead. “I’ll walk.” 

Miss Fewbanks was astonished when the parlourmaid 
announced the arrival of Mrs. Holymead. She hurried 
to the drawing-room to meet her visitor, but the warm 
greeting she offered her was checked by her astonish- 
ment at the ill and worn appearance of her beautiful 
friend. 

“Please, don’t,” said the visitor, as she held up a warn- 
ing hand to keep away a sisterly kiss. She looked at 
Miss Fewbanks with the air of a woman nerving herself 
for a desperate task, and said quickly : “I have dreadful 
things to tell you. You can never think of me again 
except with loathing — with horror.” 

The impression Miss Fewbanks received was that her 
visitor had taken leave of her senses. This impression 
was deepened by Mrs. Holymead’s next remark. 

“I want you to save my husband.” 

There was an awkward pause while Mrs. Holymead 
waited for a reply and Miss Fewbanks wondered what 
was the best thing to do. 

“Say you will save him!” exclaimed Mrs. Holymead. 
“Do what you like with me, but save him.” 

“Don’t you think, dear, you would be better if you had 
a rest and a little sleep?” said Miss Fewbanks. “I am 
sure you could sleep if you tried. Come upstairs and 
I’ll make you so comfortable.” 

“You think I am mad,” said the elder woman. “Would 
to God that I was.” 

“Come, dear,” said Miss Fewbanks coaxingly. She 
turned to the door and prepared to lead the way up- 
stairs. 

“Sleep!” exclaimed Mrs. Holymead bitterly. “I have 
not had a peaceful sleep since your father was killed. 

I have been haunted day and night. I cannot sleep.” 


284 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


“I know it was a dreadful shock to you, but you must 
not take it so much to heart. You must see your doctor 
and do what he tells you. Mr. Holymead should send 
you away.” 

At the mention of her husband’s name Mrs. Holymead 
came back to the thought that had been foremost in her 
mind. 

“Will you save him?” she exclaimed. 

“You know I will do anything I can for him,” an- 
swered the girl gently. Her intention was to humour 
her visitor, for she was quite sure that Mr. Holymead 
was in no danger. 

“Will you stop Mr. Crewe?” 

“Stop Mr. Crewe?” Miss Fewbanks repeated the 
words in a tone that showed her interest had been awak- 
ened. “Stop him from what?” 

“Stop him from arresting my husband.” 

“Do you mean to say that Mr. Crewe thinks Mr. Holy- 
mead had anything to do with the murder of my father?” 

“If I tell you everything will you stop him? Oh, 
Mabel, darling, for the sake of the past — before I came 
on the scene to mar the lives of both of them — will you 
save him? It is I — not he — who should pay the pen- 
alty of this awful tragedy. Will you save him?” 

“Tell me everything,” said the girl firmly. 

To the stricken wife there was a promise in the de- 
mand for light, and in broken phrases she poured out 
her story of shame and sorrow. With a feeling that 
everything was falling away from her the girl learnt 
from her visitor’s disconnected story that there had been 
a liaison between her murdered father and her friend. 
Mr. Holymead had discovered it after Sir Horace had 
gone to Scotland and husband and wife were away in 
the country. He was at first distracted at finding that 
his lifelong friend had seduced his wife, then he 
made her promise not to see or communicate with Sir 
Horace until he made up his mind what course of 
action to take. Three days later he caught an evening 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 285 

train to London and told her he was not returning, but 
would write to her. 

It crossed her mind that he had gone up to London to 
meet Sir Horace, and in her distress at the thought of 
what might happen when they met she consulted her 
cousin Gabrielle, who had always been in her confidence. 
Gabrielle had offered to go to Riversbrook to see if Sir 
Horace had returned from Scotland, or was expected 
back. Her train was delayed by an accident, and when 
she arrived at Riversbrook it was after half-past ten. 
She arrived a few minutes too late to prevent the tragedy. 
She found the front door open and the electric light burn- 
ing in the hall. She went up the staircase and in the 
library she found Sir Horace, who was lying on the floor 
at the point of death. She tried to lift him to a sitting 
position, but with a convulsive gasp he died in her arms. 

She laid him down and then looked hurriedly around 
the room with the object of removing any evidence of 
how or why the crime had been committed, her main 
thought being to save her friend from the shame of a 
public scandal. She picked up a revolver which was lying 
on the floor near Sir Horace, turned out the lights in the 
library and in the hall so that the house was in darkness, 
and then closed the hall door after her as she went out. 
But Mr. Crewe had discovered in some way that Mr. 
Holymead had visited Sir Horace that night. Only a 
week ago Gabrielle had gone to him and tried to put him 
off the track, but it was no use. 

The wretched woman made a pathetic appeal for her 
husband’s life. She deplored the sinfulness which had 
resulted in the tragedy. She took on herself the blame 
for it all. She had sent one man to his death, and her 
husband stood in peril of a shameful death on the gal- 
lows. But it was in the power of Mabel to save him. 
On her knees she pleaded for his life ; she pleaded to be 
saved from the horror of sending her husband to the 
gallows. If Mabel’s father could make his wishes known 


286 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

he too would plead for the life of the friend he had be- 
trayed. 

The door opened and the parlourmaid entered. Miss 
Fewbanks stepped quickly across the room so that she 
should not witness the distress of Mrs. Holymead. The 
servant handed her a card and waited for instructions. 
Miss Fewbanks looked at the card in an agony of indeci- 
sion. Then she made up her mind firmly. 

“Show him into my study,” she whispered to the girl. 
She returned to her visitor, who was sitting with her 
face buried in her hands. 

“Mr. Crewe has just motored down,” she said. “I will 
save your husband if I can.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


She was conscious that the revelation that her father 
had been killed by Mr. Holymead was a less shock than 
the revelation that her father had dishonoured the great 
friendship of his life by seducing his friend’s wife. Her 
father had been dead three months, and her grief had 
run its course. The shock caused by the discovery that 
he had been murdered had passed away, and she had 
begun to accept his violent death as part of her own ex- 
perience of life. But the discovery that he had betrayed 
his best friend, in a way that a pure-minded woman re- 
gards as the most dishonourable way possible, was a fresh 
revelation to her of human infamy. 

The knowledge that her father had been a man of 
immoral habits was not new to her. His predilection for 
fast women had long ago made it impossible for her to 
live in the same house with him for more than a week at 
a time. But that he had trampled in the mire the lifelong 
friendship of an honourable man for the sake of an 
ignoble passion revealed an unexpected depth of shame. 
That Mr. Holymead had killed him seemed almost a 
natural result of the situation. It was not that she felt 
that a just retribution had overtaken her father, but rather 
that she was glad his shameful conduct had come to an 
end. As she thought of her dead father — dead these three 
months — she gave a sigh of relief. The wretched guilty 
woman, who had shared with him the shame of his ignoble 
intrigue, had said that if her father could make his wishes 
known he would plead for the life of the friend he had 
dishonoured. But it was not her father’s plea for the 
life of his friend that would have impressed her so much 
as a plea to bury the whole unsavoury scandal from the 
light. She had promised to save Mr. Holymead if she 
287 


288 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


could, but that promise had sprung less from the spirit 
of mercy than from the desire to save her father’s name 
from a scandal, which would hold him up to public ob- 
loquy. 

She greeted Crewe with friendly warmth in spite of 
the feeling of oppression caused by the consciousness of 
the situation in front of her. He did not sit down again 
after greeting her, but stood with one hand resting on 
an inlaid chess table, with wonderful carved red and 
white Japanese chessmen ranged on each side, which he 
had been examining when she entered the room. 

“I came down to make my report to you because I 
think my work is finished,” he said. 

“You have found out who killed my father?” she 
asked quietly. 

Crewe had sufficient personal pride to feel a little hurt 
when he saw the calm way in which she accepted the 
result of his investigations, instead of congratulating 
him on his success in a difficult task. 

“I think so,” he said. “Before I tell you who it is you 
must prepare yourself for a great shock.” 

“I know who it is,” she said — “Mr. Holymead.” 

There was no pretence about his astonishment. 

“How on earth did you find out?” 

She smiled a little at such a revelation of his apprecia- 
tion of his own cleverness in having probed the mys- 
tery. 

“I did not find it out,” she said. “I had to be told.” 

“And who told you, Miss Fewbanks ?” he asked. “Has 
he confessed to you? How long have you known it?” 

“I have known it only a few minutes,” she said. “Will 
you tell me how you got on the track and all you have 
done? I am greatly interested. You have been wonder- 
fully clever to find out. I should never have guessed 
Mr. Holymead had anything to do with it — I should never 
have thought it possible. When you have finished I 
will tell you how I came to know. The story is ex- 
tremely simple — and sordid.” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


289 

The fact that the key of the mystery had been in her 
hands only a few minutes was a solace to Crewe, as it 
detracted but little from the story he had to tell of pa- 
tient investigations extending over weeks. 

He pieced together the story of the tragedy as he had 
unravelled it. Hill, he said, had conceived the idea of 
blackmailing her father after he had discovered the exist- 
ence of some letters in a secret drawer of Sir Horace’s 
desk. The fact that Sir Horace had kept these letters 
instead of destroying them as he had destroyed other 
letters of a somewhat similar kind showed that he was 
very much infatuated with the lady who wrote them. 
That lady, as doubtless Miss Fewbanks had guessed, was 
Mrs. Holymead — a lady with whom Sir Horace had been 
on very friendly terms before she married Mr. Holymead. 

“What became of the letters?” asked Miss Fewbanks. 
“Have you got them?” 

“I think they are destroyed,” he said. “Mrs. Holy- 
mead removed them from the secret drawer the day 
after the discovery of the murder. She removed them 
when the police had charge of the house, and almost from 
under the eyes of Inspector Chippenfield. It was a daring 
plan and well carried out.” 

Miss Fewbanks heaved a sigh of relief on learning 
the fate of the letters. It had been her intention to 
endeavour to obtain them if they were in Crewe’s pos- 
session, and destroy them. 

Crewe explained that Hill was afraid to take the letters 
and then boldly blackmail Sir Horace. The butler con- 
ceived the plan of getting Birchill to break into the house. 
He did not take Birchill into his confidence with regard 
to the blackmailing scheme, but in order to induce Sir 
Horace to believe the burglar had stolen the letters he 
told Birchill to force open the desk, as he would probably 
find money or papers of value there. But in order to pre- 
vent Birchill getting the letters if he should happen to 
stumble across the secret drawer, Hill removed them the 
day before. His plan was to go to Riversbrook in the 


290 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


morning after the burglary, and after leaving open the 
secret drawer which had contained the letters, to report 
the burglary to the police. When Sir Horace came home 
unexpectedly Hill had just removed the letters and had 
them in his possession. Hill was greatly perturbed at 
his master’s unexpected return, and had to get an oppor- 
tunity to replace the letters in the secret drawer, but Sir 
Horace told him to go home, as he was not wanted till 
the morning. Hill went to that girl’s flat in Westminster, 
and there saw Birchill. He told Birchill that Sir 
Horace had returned unexpectedly, but he urged Bir- 
chill to carry out the burglary as arranged, and as- 
sured him that as Sir Horace was a heavy sleeper there 
would be no risk if he waited until Sir Horace went 
to bed. Hill’s position was that if the burglary was 
postponed Sir Horace might make the discovery that 
the letters had been stolen from the secret drawer. In 
that case Sir Horace would immediately suspect Hill, 
who, he knew, was an ex-convict. It was just possible 
that Sir Horace, before going to bed, would discover 
that the letters had been stolen — that is, if he went to 
bed before Birchill got into the place — but Hill had to 
take that risk. 

It was the fact that the burglary Hill had arranged with 
Birchill took place on the night Sir Horace was killed 
that had given rise to the false clues which had misled 
the police. Crewe, as he himself modestly put it, was so 
fortunate as to get on the right track from the start. His 
suspicions were directed to Holymead when he saw the 
latter carrying away a walking-stick from Riversbrook 
after his visit of condolence to Miss Fewbanks. Crewe 
explained what tactics he had adopted to obtain a brief 
inspection of the stick in order to ascertain for his own 
satisfaction if it had belonged to Holymead. His sus- 
picions against Holymead were strengthened when he dis- 
covered that the latter, when driving to his hotel on the 
night of the tragedy, had thrown away a glove which 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


291 

was the fellow of the one found by the police in Sir 
Horace’s library. 

“The next point to settle was whether Holymead had 
had anything to do with your father’s sudden return 
from Scotland,” said Crewe, continuing his story. “If 
that proved to be the case, and if evidence could be 
obtained on which to justify the conclusion that these 
two old friends had had a deadly quarrel, the circum- 
stantial evidence against Holymead as the man who killed 
your father was very strong. I may say that before I 
went to Scotland I came across evidence of the estrange- 
ment of Holymead and his wife. Do you remember when 
you and Mrs. Holymead were leaving the court after the 
inquest that Mr. Holymead came up and spoke to you? 
He shook hands with you and was on the point of shaking 
hands with his wife as if she were a lady he had met 
casually. Then, on the night of the murder, the taxi-cab 
driver at Hyde Park Corner drove him to his house at 
Princes Gate, but was ordered. to drive back and take him 
to Verney’s Hotel. All this was interesting to me — doubly 
interesting in the light of the fact that Sir Horace had 
known Mrs. Holymead before her second marriage, and 
had paid her every attention. 

“I went to Scotland and made inquiries at Craigleith 
Hall, where Sir Horace had been shooting. My object 
was to endeavour to obtain a clue to the reason for his 
sudden journey to London. The local police had made 
inquiries on this point on behalf of Scotland Yard, and 
had been unable to obtain any clue. No telegram had 
been received by Sir Horace, and he had sent none. 
Of course he had received some letters. He had told 
none of the other members of the shooting party the ob- 
ject of his departure for London, but he had declared 
his intention of being back with them in less than a week. 
It had occurred to me when the crime was discovered 
that his missing pocket-book might not have been stolen 
by his murderer, but might have been lost in Scotland. 
I made inquiries in that direction and eventually found 


292 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

that the man who had attended to Sir Horace on the 
moors had the pocket-book. His story was that Sir 
Horace had lost it the day before his departure for 
London. He had taken off his coat owing to the heat 
on the moor, and the pocket-book had dropped out. He 
ascertained his loss before he left for London, and told 
this man Sanders where he thought the pocket-book had 
dropped out. Sanders was to look for it, and if he found 
it was to keep it until Sir Horace came back. He did 
find it, and after learning of your father’s death was 
tempted to keep it, as it contained four five-pound notes. 
Sanders is an ignorant man, and can scarcely read. He 
professed to know nothing of the pocket-book when I 
questioned him, but I became suspicious of him, and laid 
a trap which he fell into. Then he handed me the 
pocket-book, which he had hidden on the moor, under 
a stone. In the pocket-book I found a letter from Holy- 
mead asking your father to come to London at once 
as there were to be two new appointments to the Court 
of Appeal, and that Sir Horace had an excellent chance 
of obtaining one if he came to London and used his in- 
fluence with the Chancellor and the Chief Justice, who 
were still in town. The writer indicated that he was 
doing all that was possible in Sir Horace’s interests, and 
that he would meet Sir Horace at Riversbrook at 9.30 
on Wednesday night and let him know the exact posi- 
tion. There is nothing suspicious in such a letter, but 
my inquiries concerning new appointments to the Court 
of Appeal suggest that the statements in the letter are 
false. 

“Now let us consider the conduct of Holymead and his 
wife since the night of the murder. His course of ac- 
tion has not been that of a man anxious to assist the po- 
lice in the discovery of the murderer of his old friend. 
We have first of all his secrecy regarding his visit to 
Riversbrook that night; the fact of the visit being es- 
tablished by the stick, and the glove he left behind. We 
have the estrangement of husband and wife. We have 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


293 


Mrs. Holymead’s visit to Riversbrook on the morning 
that the first details of the crime appeared in the news- 
papers. Ostensibly she came to see you and pay her 
condolences, but as she knew that you had been away 
in the country she ought to have telephoned to learn 
if you had come up to London. Instead of telephon- 
ing, she went to Riversbrook direct, and when she found 
you were not there she was admitted to the presence of 
my old friend, Inspector Chippenfield. He is an ex- 
cellent police officer, but I do not think he is a match 
for a clever woman. And Mrs. Holymead is such a fine- 
looking woman that I feel sure Chippenfield was so im- 
pressed by her appearance that he forgot he was a police 
officer and remembered only that he was a man. She 
managed to get him out of the room long enough to 
enable her to open the secret drawer in Sir Horace’s 
desk and remove the letters. No doubt Sir Horace had 
shown her where he kept them, as their neat little hiding 
place was an indication of the value he placed upon them. 
She was under the impression that no one knew about 
the letters, and her object in removing them was to 
prevent the police stumbling across them and so getting 
on the track of her husband. But as I have already 
told you, Hill knew about the letters, and on the night 
of the murder had them in his possession. On the night 
after the murder, while Inspector Chippenfield was mak- 
ing investigations at Riversbrook, Hill had managed 
to obtain the opportunity to put the letters back. He 
naturally thought that if the police discovered some of 
Sir Horace’s private papers in his possession they would 
conclude that he had had something to do with the 
murder. 

“The next point of any consequence is Holymead’s de- 
fence of Birchill and the deliberate way in which he 
blackened your father’s name while cross-examining Hill. 
If we regard Holymead’s conduct solely from the stand- 
point of a barrister doing his best for his client his de- 
fence of Birchill is not so remarkable. But we have 


294 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


to remember that your father and Holymead had been 
life-long friends. His acceptance of the brief for the de- 
fence was in itself remarkable. The fee, as I took the 
trouble to find out, was not large ; indeed, for a man of 
Holymead’s commanding eminence at the bar it might 
be called a small one, and he should have returned the 
brief because the fee was inadequate. We have, there- 
fore, two things to consider — his defence of the man 
charged with the murder of your father, and his readi- 
ness to do the work without regard to the monetary 
side of it. Much was said at the time in some of the 
papers about a barrister being a servant of the court 
and compelled by the etiquette of the bar to place his 
services at the disposal of anyone who needs them 
and is prepared to pay for them. A great deal of non- 
sense has been said and written on that subject. A bar- 
rister can return a brief because for private reasons he 
does not wish to have anything to do with the case. It 
was Holymead’s duty to do his best to get Birchill off 
whether he believed his client was guilty or innocent. 
Could Holymead have done his best for Birchill if he 
had believed that Birchill was the murderer of his life- 
long friend? Would he have trusted himself to do his 
best? No. Holymead knew that Birchill was innocent; 
he knew who the guilty man was, and, knowing that, 
knowing that his action in defending the man charged 
with the murder of an old friend would weigh with the 
jury, he took up the case because he felt there was a 
moral obligation on him to get Birchill off. His conduct 
of the defence, during which he attacked the moral char- 
acter of your father, was remarkable, coming from him 
— the friend of the dead man. As the action of defend- 
ing counsel it was perfectly legitimate. It gave rise to 
some discussion in purely legal circles — whether Holy- 
mead did right or wrong in violating a long friendship 
in order to get his man off. The academic point is 
whether he ought to have violated his personal feelings 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 295 

for an old friend, or violated his duty to his client by 
doing something less than his best for him. 

'‘Apart from the circumstantial and inferential evi- 
dence against Holymead, there is the fact that his wife 
knows that he committed the crime. Her acts point to 
that; her conduct throughout springs from the desire 
to shield him. Even the removal of the letters from the 
secret drawer was prompted more by the desire to save 
him than to save herself. Their discovery would not 
have been very serious for her, but it would have put 
the police on her husband’s track. If I remember rightly, 
she asked you to keep her in touch with all the develop- 
ments of the investigations of the police and myself. 
You told me that she was greatly interested in the fact 
that I did not believe Birchill was guilty, and particu- 
larly anxious to know if I suspected anyone. At Bir- 
chill’s trial she did me the honour of watching me very 
closely. I was watching both her and her husband. 
When she discovered through her womanly intuition that 
I suspected her husband; that I was accumulating evi- 
dence against him ; she sent round her friend, Mademoi- 
selle Chiron, with some interesting information for me. 
An extremely clever young woman that — like all her 
countrywomen she is wonderfully sharp and quick, with 
a natural aptitude for intrigue. Of course, the infor- 
mation she gave me was intended to mislead me — in- 
tended to show me that Mr. Holymead had nothing to 
do with the crime. But some of it was extremely in- 
teresting when it dealt with actual facts, and some of 
the facts were quite new to me. For instance, I had 
not previously known that a piece of a lady’s handker- 
chief was found clenched in your father’s right hand 
after he was dead. The police very kindly kept that in- 
formation from me. Had they told me about it I might 
have been inclined to suspect Mrs. Holymead and to 
believe that her husband was trying to shield her. His 
conduct would bear that interpretation if she had hap- 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


296 

pened to be guilty. The police unconsciously saved me 
from taking up that false scent. 

“I have detained you a long time in dealing with these 
points, Miss Fewbanks, but I wanted to make every- 
thing clear. I have all but reached the end. Let us take 
in chronological order what happened on the night of 
the tragedy. We have your father’s sudden return from 
Scotland. Hill was at Riversbrook when he arrived, and 
having the secret letters in his possession, was greatly 
perturbed by the unexpected return of Sir Horace. He 
went to Doris Fanning’s flat in Westminster to see Bir- 
chill. In his absence Holymead arrived. It is probable 
that he took the Tube from Hyde Park Corner to Hamp- 
stead and walked to Riversbrook. He rang the bell ; was 
admitted by your father, and, leaving his hat and stick 
in the hall-stand as he had often done before, the two 
went upstairs to the library. There was an angry inter- 
view, Holymead accusing your father of having wronged 
him and demanding satisfaction. My own opinion is 
that there was an irregular sort of duel. Each of them 
fired one shot. It is quite conceivable that Holymead, 
in spite of his mission, being that of revenge, gave your 
father a fair chance for his life. A man in Holymead’s 
position would probably feel indifferent whether he killed 
the man who had ruined his home or was killed by 
him. But whereas your father’s shot missed by a few 
inches, Holymead’s inflicted a fatal wound. When he 
saw your father fall and realised what he had done, the 
instinct of self-preservation asserted itself. He grabbed 
at the gloves he had taken off, but in his hurry dropped 
one on the floor. He ran downstairs, took his hat from 
the hall-stand, but left his stick. Then he rushed out 
of the house, leaving the front door open. He made his 
way back to Hampstead Tube station, got out at Hyde 
Park and took a cab to his hotel. 

“Within a few minutes of Holymead’s departure from 
Riversbrook the Frenchwoman arrived. She may have 
passed Holymead in Tanton Gardens, or Holymead, when 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


297 


he saw her approaching, may have hidden inside the 
gateway of a neighbouring house. She had come up 
from the country on learning that Holymead had come 
to London. She caught the next train, but unfortu- 
nately it was late on arriving at Victoria owing to a 
slight accident to the engine. I take it that she was sent 
by Mrs. Holymead to follow her husband if possible and 
see if he had any designs on Sir Horace. She took a 
cab as far as the Spaniards Inn and then got out, and 
walked to Riversbrook. When she arrived at the house 
she found the front door open and the lights burning. 
There was no answer to her ring and she entered the 
house and crept upstairs. Opening the library door, she 
saw your father lying on the floor. She endeavoured to 
raise him to a sitting posture, but it was too late to do 
anything for him. With a convulsive movement he 
grasped at the handkerchief she was holding in one hand, 
and a corner of it was torn off and remained in his hand. 
When she saw he had breathed his last she laid him 
down on the floor. Since she had been too late to pre- 
vent the crime, the next best thing in the interests of Mrs. 
Holymead was to remove traces of Holymead’s guilt. 
She picked up the revolver, which she thought belonged 
to Holymead, turned off the light in the room, went down- 
stairs, turned off the light in the hall, and closed the hall 
door as she went out. 

‘‘She behaved with remarkable courage and coolness, 
but she overlooked the glove in the room of the tragedy, 
and Holymead’s stick in the hall-stand. Later in the 
night we have Birchill’s entry into the house, his alarm 
at finding your father had been killed, and his return 
to the flat where Hill was waiting for him.” 

When Crewe had finished he looked at the girl. She 
had followed his statement with breathless interest. 

“You have been wonderfully clever,” she said. “It is 
perfectly marvellous.” 

Crewe’s eyes had wandered to the inlaid chess-table 
and the Japanese chessmen set in prim rows on either 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


298 

side. Mechanically he began to arrange a problem on 
the board. His interest in the famous murder mystery 
seemed to have evaporated. 

“I was very fortunate,” he said absently, in reply to 
Miss Fewbanks. “Everything seemed to come right 
for me.” 

“You made everything come right,” she replied. “I 
do not know how to thank you for giving so much of 
your time to unravelling the mystery.” 

“It was fascinating while it lasted,” he replied, his fin- 
gers still busy with the chessmen. “Of course, I am 
pleased with my success, but in a way I am sorry the 
work has come to an end. I thought that the knowledge 
that Holymead was the guilty man would come as a 
great shock to you. But I am glad you are able to take 
it so well.” 

“A few minutes before you arrived I learned that it 
was Mr. Holymead. But what has been more of a shock 
to me, Mr. Crewe, is the discovery that my father had 
ruined his home. Oh, Mr. Crewe, it is terrible for me 
to have to hold my dead father up to judgment, but it 
is more terrible still to know that he was not faithful 
even to his lifelong friendship with Mr. Holymead.” 

“Your nerves are unstrung,” he said. “You want rest 
and quiet — you want a long sea voyage.” 

“Yes, I want to forget,” she said. “But there are 
others who want to forget, too. Cannot we bury the 
whole thing in forgetfulness?” 

Crewe’s growing interest in the chessboard and his 
problem suddenly vanished. His eyes became instantly 
riveted on her face in a keen, questioning look. 

“What is it to me or you that Mr. Holymead should 
be publicly proved guilty of this terrible thing?” she 
went on, passionately. “Why drag into the light my 
father’s conduct in order to make a day’s sensation for 
the newspapers? For his sake, what better thing could 
I do than let his memory rest?” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 299 

‘‘Do you mean that Holymead should be allowed to 
go free?” he asked, in astonishment. 

“Yes.” 

“I’m extremely sorry,” he said slowly. 

“Won’t you let it all drop?” she pleaded. 

“I could not take upon myself the responsibility of 
condoning such a crime — the responsibility of judging 
between your father and his murderer,” he said sol- 
emnly. “But even if I could it is too late to think of 
doing so. There is already a warrant out for Holymead’s 
arrest.” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


The newspapers made a sensation out of the announce- 
ment of Holymead’s arrest on a charge of having mur- 
dered Sir Horace Fewbanks. They declared that the ar- 
rest of the eminent K.C. on a capital charge would come 
as a surprising development of the Riversbrook case. It 
would cause a shock to his many friends, and especially 
to those who knew what a close friendship had existed 
between the arrested man and the dead judge. The 
papers expatiated on the fact that Holymead had ap- 
peared for the defence when Frederick Birchill had been 
tried for the murder. As the public would remember, 
Birchill had been acquitted owing to the great ability 
with which his defence was conducted. 

It was somewhat remarkable, said the Daily Record , 
that in his speech for the defence Holymead had attempt- 
ed to throw suspicion on one of the witnesses for the pros- 
ecution. The journal hinted that it was the result of 
something which Counsel for the defence had let drop 
at this trial that Inspector Chippenfield had picked up the 
clue which had led to Holymead’s arrest. The papers had 
very little information to give the public about this new 
development of the Fewbanks mystery, but they boldly 
declared that some startling revelations were expected 
when the case came before the court. 

In the absence of interesting facts apropos of the ar- 
rest of the distinguished K.C., some of the papers pub- 
lished summaries of his legal career, and the more fa- 
mous cases with which he had been connected. These 
summaries would have been equally suitable to an an- 
nouncement that Mr. Holymead had been promoted to 
the peerage or that he had been run over by a London 
bus. 


300 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


301 


There were people who declared without knowing any- 
thing about the evidence the police had in their posses- 
sion that in arresting the famous barrister the police 
had made a far worse blunder than in arresting Birchill. 
It was even hinted that the arrest of the man who had 
got Birchill off was an expression of the police desire 
for revenge. To these people the acquittal of Holy- 
mead was a foregone conclusion. The man who had 
saved Birchill’s life by his brilliant forensic abilities 
was not likely to fail when his own life was at stake. 

But when the case came before the police court and 
the police produced their evidence, it was seen that 
there was a strong case against the prisoner. The whis- 
pers as to the circumstances under which the prisoner 
had taken the life of a friend of many years appealed 
to a sentimental public. These whispers concerned the 
discovery by the prisoner that his friend had seduced 
his beautiful wife. In the police court proceedings there 
were no disclosures under this head, but the thing was 
hinted at. In view of the legal eminence of the prisoner 
and the fear of the police that he would prove too much 
for any police officer who might take charge of the prose- 
cution, the Direction of Public Prosecutions sent Mr. 
Walters, K.C., to appear at the police court. The pris- 
oner was represented by Mr. Lethbridge, K.C., an emi- 
nent barrister to whom the prisoner had been opposed 
in many civil cases. 

Inspector Chippenfield, who realised that the important 
position the prisoner occupied at the bar added to the 
importance of the officer who had arrested him, gave 
evidence as to the arrest of the prisoner at his chambers 
in the Middle Temple. With a generous feeling, which 
was possibly due to the fact that he was entitled to none 
of the credit of collecting the evidence against the pris- 
oner, Inspector Chippenfield allowed Detective Rolfe a 
subordinate share in the glory that hung round the arrest 
by volunteering the information in the witness-box that 
when making the arrest he was accompanied by that 


302 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


officer. He declared that the prisoner made no remark 
when arrested and did not seem surprised. Mr. Wal- 
ters produced a left-hand glove and witness duly identi- 
fied it as the glove which he found in the room in which 
the murder took place. 

Inspector Seldon gave formal evidence of the dis- 
covery of the body of Sir Horace Fewbanks on the 19th 
of August. Dr. Slingsby repeated the evidence that he 
had given at the trial of Birchill as to the cause of death, 
and was again professionally indefinite as to the length of 
time the victim had been dead when he saw the body. 
Thomas Taylor, taxi-cab driver, gave evidence as to driv- 
ing the prisoner from Hyde Park Corner on the night of 
the 18th of August and the finding of the glove. 

Crewe went into the witness-box and swore that on 
the second day after the discovery of the murder he was 
present at Riversbrook when the prisoner visited the 
house and saw Miss Fewbanks. When the prisoner ar- 
rived he was not carrying a walking-stick, but he had one 
in his hand when he took his departure from the house. 
Witness followed the prisoner, and a boy who collided 
with the prisoner knocked the stick out of his hands. Wit- 
ness picked up the stick and inspected it. He identified the 
stick produced in court as the one which the prisoner 
had been carrying on that day. 

The most difficult, and most important witness, as far 
as new evidence was concerned, was Alexander Saun- 
ders, a big, broad red-faced Scotchman, whose firm grasp 
on the tam-o’-shanter he held in his hand seemed 
to indicate a fear that all the pickpockets in London 
had designs on it. With great difficulty he was made 
to understand his part in the witness-box, and some of 
the questions had to be repeated several times before 
he could grasp their meaning. Mr. Lethbridge humor- 
ously suggested that his learned friend should have pro- 
vided an interpreter so that his pure English might be 
translated into Lowland Scotch. 

By slow degrees Saunders was able to explain how 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


303 


he had found the pocket-book which Sir Horace Few- 
banks had lost while shooting at Craigleith Flail. Wit- 
ness identified a letter produced as having been in the 
pocket-book when he found it. The letter, which had 
been written by the prisoner to Sir Horace FewbanLs, 
urged Sir Horace to return to London at once, as if 
he did so there was a good possibility of his obtaining 
promotion to the Court of Appeal. The writer promised 
to do all he could in the matter, and to call on Sir Horace 
at Riversbrook as soon as he returned from Scotland. 

Percival Chambers, an elderly well-dressed man with 
a grey beard, and wearing glasses, who was secretary of 
the Master of Rolls, swore that he knew of no prospective 
vacancies on the Court of Appeal Bench. Were any 
vacancies of the kind in view he believed he would be 
aware of them. 

This closed the case for the police, and Mr. Lethbridge 
immediately asked for the discharge of the prisoner on 
the ground that there was no case to go before a jury. 
The magistrate shook his head, and merely asked Mr. 
Lethbridge if he intended to reserve his defence. Mr. 
Lethbridge replied with a nod, and the accused was for- 
mally committed for trial at the next sittings at the Old 
Bailey. 

The newspapers reported at great length the evidence 
given in the police court, and their reports were eagerly 
read by a sensation-loving public. Even those people 
who, when Holymead’s arrest was announced, had ridi- 
culed the idea of a man like Holymead murdering a life- 
long friend, had to admit that the police had collected 
some damaging evidence. Those people who at the 
time of the arrest had prided themselves on possessing 
an open mind as to the guilt of the famous barrister, 
confessed after reading the police court evidence that 
there could be little doubt of his guilt. The only thing 
that was missing from the police court proceedings 
was the production of a motive for the crime, but it 
was whispered that there would be some interesting reve- 


304 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


lations on this point when the prisoner was tried at the 
Old Bailey. 

Fortunately he had not long to wait for his trial, as 
the next sittings of the Central Criminal Court had pre- 
viously been fixed a week ahead of the date of his commit- 
ment. That week was full of anxiety for Mr. Lethbridge, 
for he realised that he had a poor case. What increased 
his anxiety was the fact that Holymead insisted on the 
defence being conducted on the lines he laid down. It 
was a new thing in Lethbridge’s experience to accept 
such instructions from a prisoner, but Holymead had 
threatened to dispense with all assistance unless his in- 
structions were carried out. He was particularly anxious 
that his wife’s name should be kept out of court as 
much as possible. Lethbridge had pointed out to him that 
the prosecution would be sure to drag it in at the trial 
in suggesting a motive for the murder, and that for 
the purposes of the defence it was best to have a full 
and frank disclosure of everything so that an appeal 
could be made to the jury’s feelings. Holymead’s beau- 
tiful wife, who was almost distracted by her husband’s 
position, implored his Counsel to allow her to go into the 
box and make a confession. But that course did not 
commend itself to Lethbridge, who realised that she would 
make an extremely bad witness and would but help to 
put the rope round her husband’s neck. He put her 
off by declaring that there was a good prospect of her 
husband being acquitted, but that if the verdict un- 
fortunately went against him her confession would have 
more weight in saving him, when the appeal against the 
verdict was heard. 

It amazed Lethbridge to find that the prisoner ex- 
pressed the view that Birchill had committed the mur- 
der. This view was based on his contention that Sir 
Horace Fewbanks was alive when he (Holymead) left 
him about ten o’clock. The interview between them 
had been an angry one, but Holymead persisted in as- 
serting that he had not shot his former friend. He de- 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


305 

dared that he had not taken a revolver with him when 
he went to Riversbrook. 

Lethbridge was one of those barristers who believe 
that a knowledge of the guilt of a client handicapped 
Counsel in defending him. He had his private opinion 
as to the result of the angry interview between Holy- 
mead and Sir Horace Fewbanks, but he preferred that 
Holymead should protest his innocence even to him. 
That made it easier for him to make a stirring appeal 
to the jury than it would have been if his client had 
fully confessed to him. His private opinion as to the 
author of the crime was strengthened by Holymead’s 
admission that Birchill had not confessed to him or to 
his solicitor at the time of his trial that he had shot Sir 
Horace Fewbanks. He was astonished that Holymead 
had taken up Birchill’s defence, but Holymead’s expla- 
nation was the somewhat extraordinary one that the man 
who had killed the seducer of his wife had done him a 
service by solving a problem that had seemed insoluble 
without a public scandal. There was no doubt that 
although Sir Horace Fewbanks was in his grave, Holy- 
mead’s hatred of him for his betrayal of his wife burned 
as strongly as when he had made the discovery that 
wrecked his home life. Neither death nor time could dim 
the impression, nor lessen his hatred for the dead man 
who had once been his closest friend. 

Lethbridge, feeling that it was his duty as Counsel for 
the prisoner to try every avenue which might help to 
an acquittal, asked Mr. Tomlinson, the solicitor who 
was instructing him in the case, to find Birchill and 
bring him to his chambers. Birchill was found and 
kept an appointment. Lethbridge explained to him that 
he had nothing further to fear from the police with 
regard to the murder of Sir Horace Fewbanks. Having 
been acquitted on this charge he could not be tried on 
it again, no matter what discoveries were made. He 
could not even be tried for perjury, as he had not gone 
into the witness-box. Having allowed these facts to 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


306 

sink home, he delicately suggested to Birchill that he 
ought to come forward as a witness for the defence 
of Holymead — he ought to do his best to try and save 
the life of the man who had saved his life. 

“What do you want me to swear?” asked Birchill, in 
a tone which indicated that although he did not object 
to committing perjury, he wanted to know how far he 
was to go. 

“Well, that Sir Horace Fewbanks was alive when you 
went to Riversbrook,” suggested Lethbridge. 

“But I tell you he was dead,” protested Birchill. He 
seemed to think that reviving a dead man was beyond 
even the power of perjury. 

“That was your original story, I know,” agreed Leth- 
bridge suavely. “But as you were not put into the wit- 
ness-box to swear it you can alter it without fear of 
any consequences.” 

“You want me to swear that he was alive?” said 
Birchill, meditatively. 

“If you can conscientiously do so,” replied Lethbridge. 

“That he was alive when I left Riversbrook?” asked 
Birchill. 

“Well, not necessarily that,” said Lethbridge. 

Birchill sprang up in alarm. 

“Good God, do you want me to swear that I killed 
him?” he demanded. 

Lethbridge endeavoured to explain that he would have 
nothing to fear from such a confession in the witness- 
box, but Birchill would listen to no further explanations. 
He felt that he was in dangerous ^company, and that 
his safety depended on getting out of the room. 

“You’ve made a mistake,” he said, as he reached the 
door. “If you want a witness of that kind you ought to 
look for him in Colney Hatch.” 


CHAPTER XXX 


The impending trial of Holymead produced almost 
as much excitement in staid legal circles as it did among 
the general public. It was rumoured that there was a 
difficulty in obtaining a judge to preside at the trial, as 
they all objected to being placed in the position of try- 
ing a man who was well-known to them and with whom 
most of them had been on friendly terms. There was 
a great deal of sympathy for the prisoner among the 
judges. Of course, they could not admit that any man 
had the right to take the law into his own hands, but 
they realised that if any wrong done to an individual 
could justify this course it was the wrong Sir Horace 
Fewbanks had done to an old friend. 

When it became known that Mr. Justice Hodson was 
to preside at the Old Bailey during the trial of Holymead, 
legal rumour concerned itself with statements to the effect 
that there was now a difficulty in obtaining a K.C. to 
undertake the prosecution. When it was discovered that 
Mr. Walters, K.C., was to conduct the prosecution, it was 
whispered that he had asked to be relieved of the work 
and had even waited on the Attorney-General in the mat- 
ter, but that the latter had told him that he must put 
his personal feelings aside and act in accordance with 
that high sense of duty he had always shown in his 
professional career. 

In Newgate Street a long queue of people waited for 
admission to Old Bailey on the day the trial was to 
begin. They were inspected by two fat policemen to 
decide whether they appeared respectable enough to be 
entitled to a free seat at the entertainment in Number 
One Court. When the doors opened at 10.15 a. m. the 
first batch of them were admitted, but on reaching the 

307 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


308 

top of the stairs, where they were inspected by a ser- 
geant, they were informed that all the seats in the 
gallery of Number One Court had been filled, but that 
he would graciously permit them to go to Numbers Two, 
Three, Four, or Five Courts. Those who were not satis- 
fied with this generosity could get out the way they had 
come in and be quick about it. What the sergeant did 
not explain was that so many people with social influence 
had applied to the presiding judge for permission to be 
present at the trial that it had been found necessary to 
reserve the gallery for them as well as most of the seats in 
the body of the court. Fashionably-dressed ladies and 
well-groomed men drove up to the main entrance of the 
Old Bailey in motors and taxi-cabs. The scene was as 
busy as the scene outside a West End theatre on a first 
night. The services of several policemen were necessary 
to regulate the arrival and departure of taxi-cabs and mo- 
tor-cars and to keep back the staring mob of disappointed 
people who had been refused admission to the court by 
the fat sergeant, but were determined to see as much as 
they could before they went away. Elderly ladies and 
young ladies were assisted from smart motor-cars by their 
escorts, and greeted their friends with feminine fervour. 
Some of the younger ones exchanged whispered regrets, 
as they swept into the court, that such a fine-looking man 
as Holymead should have got himself into such a ter- 
rible predicament. 

The legal profession was numerously represented 
among the spectators in the body of the court. So many 
distinguished members of the profession had applied 
for tickets of admission that there was little room for 
members of the junior bar. It was many years since 
a trial had created so much interest in legal circles. 
When Mr. Justice Hodson entered the court, followed 
by no fewer than eight of the Sheriffs of London, those 
present in the court rose. The members of the profes- 
sion bowed slowly in the direction of His Honour. The 
prisoner was brought into the dock from below, and 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


309 


took the seat that was given to him beside one of the 
two warders who remained in the dock with him. He 
looked a little careworn, as though with sleepless nights, 
but his strong, clean-shaven face was as resolute as ever, 
and betrayed nothing of the mental agony which he 
endured. His keen dark eyes glanced quietly through 
the court, and though many members of the bar smiled 
at him when they thought they had caught his eye, he 
gave no smile in return. As he looked at Mr. Justice 
Hodson, the distinguished judge inclined his head to what 
was almost a nod of recognition, but the prisoner looked 
calmly at the judge as though he had never seen him 
before and had never been inside a court in his life till 
then. 

Among those persons standing in the body of the court 
were Crewe and Inspector Chippenfield and Detective 
Rolfe. Inspector Chippenfield displayed so much friendli- 
ness to Crewe as he drew his attention to the number of 
celebrities in court that it was evident he had buried 
for the time being his professional enmity. This was 
because Crewe had allowed him to appropriate some of 
the credit of unravelling Holymead’s connection with the 
crime. As the jury were being sworn in Crewe and Chip- 
penfield made their way out of court into the corridor. 
As they were to be called as witnesses they would not be 
allowed in court until after they had given their evidence. 

Mr. Walters in his opening address paid tribute to 
the exceptional circumstances of the case by some slight 
show of nervousness. Several times he insisted that the 
case was what he termed unique. The prisoner in the 
dock was a man who by his distinguished abilities had 
won for himself a leading position at the bar, and had 
been honoured and respected by all who knew him. It 
was not the first occasion that a member of the legal 
profession had been placed on trial on a capital charge, 
though he was glad to say, for the honour of the pro- 
fession, that cases of the kind were extremely rare. But 
what made the case unique was that it was not the first 


3 10 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


trial in connection with the murder of Sir Horace Few- 
banks, and that at the first trial when a man named Fred- 
erick Birchill had been placed in the dock, the prisoner 
now before the court had appeared as defending Coun- 
sel, and by his brilliant conduct of the defence had 
materially contributed to the verdict of acquittal which 
had been brought in by the jury. Some evidence would 
be placed before the jury about the first trial and the 
conduct of the defence. He ventured to assert that the 
jury would find in this evidence some damaging facts 
against the prisoner — that they would find a clear indi- 
cation that the prisoner had defended Birchill because 
he knew himself to be guilty of this murder, and felt 
an obligation on him to place his legal knowledge and 
forensic powers at the disposal of a man whom he knew 
to be innocent. At the former trial the prisoner, as 
Counsel for the defence, had attempted to throw sus- 
picion on a man named Hill, who had been butler to the 
late Sir Horace Fewbanks, but evidence would be placed 
before the jury to show that in doing so the prisoner 
had been smitten by some pangs of conscience at casting 
suspicion on a man who he knew was not guilty. 

It was not incumbent on the prosecution to prove a 
motive for the murder, continued Mr. Walters, though 
where the motive was plainly proved the case against 
the prisoner was naturally strengthened. In this case 
there was no doubt about the motive, but the extent 
of the evidence to be placed before the jury under that 
head would depend upon the defence. The prosecution 
would submit some evidence on the point, but the full 
story could only be told if the defence placed the wife 
of the prisoner in the witness-box. It was impossible 
for the prosecution to call her as a witness, as English 
law prevented a wife giving evidence against her hus- 
band. She could, however, give evidence in favour of 
her husband, and doubtless the defence would take full 
advantage of the privilege of calling her. 

The evidence which he intended to call would show that 


THE HAMPSTEAD* MYSTERY 


3ii 

for years past very friendly relations had existed be- 
tween the prisoner and the murdered man. They had 
been at Cambridge together and had studied law to- 
gether in chambers. Their friendship continued after 
their marriages. The prisoner had married a second 
time, and at that time Sir Horace Fewbanks was a wid- 
ower. Sir Horace Fewbanks was what was known as a 
ladies’ man, and at the previous trial prisoner, as defend- 
ing Counsel, had tried to bring out that Sir Horace was a 
man of immoral reputation among women. There was 
no doubt that the prisoner, during Sir Horace’s absence 
in Scotland, became convinced that Sir Horace had been 
paying attention to his wife. There was no doubt that, 
being a man of a jealous disposition, his suspicions went 
beyond that. At any rate he wrote a letter to Sir Horace 
at Craigleith Hall, where the latter was shooting, asking 
him to come to London at once. In order to induce Sir 
Horace to return, and in order not to arouse suspicion as 
to his real object, he concocted a story about a vacancy in 
the Court of Appeal Bench to which, it appeared, Sir 
Horace Fewbanks desired to be appointed. In this letter, 
which would be produced in evidence, the prisoner pre- 
tended to be working in Sir Horace’s interests, and of- 
fered to meet him on the night of his return at Rivers- 
brook and let him know fully how matters stood. Sir 
Horace apparently wrote to the prisoner making an ap- 
pointment with him for the night of the 18th of August. 
The prisoner kept that appointment, charged Sir Horace 
with carrying on an intrigue with his wife, and then shot 
him. 

“That is the case for the prosecution which I will en- 
deavour to establish to the satisfaction of the jury,” said 
Mr. Walters, in concluding his speech. “Of course it is 
impossible to produce direct evidence of the actual shoot- 
ing. But I will produce a silent but indisputable witness 
in the form of a glove which belonged to the prisoner, 
that he was present in the room in which the murder 
took place. I will produce evidence to show that the 


312 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


prisoner left his stick behind in the hat-stand in the hall 
on the night of the murder. These things prove con- 
clusively that he left Riversbrook in a state of consider- 
able excitement. The fact that after the murder was dis- 
covered he kept hidden in his own breast the knowledge 
that he had been there on that night, instead of going to 
the police and, in the endeavour to assist them to detect 
the murderer of his lifelong friend, informing them that 
he had called on Sir Horace, shows conclusively that he 
went there on a mission on which he dared not throw the 
light of day.” 

Those witnesses who had given evidence at the police 
court were called and repeated their statements. Inspec- 
tor Seldon was closely cross-examined by Mr. Lethbridge 
as to the way in which the dead body was dressed when 
he discovered it. He declared that Sir Horace had been 
wearing a light lounge suit of grey colour, a silk shirt, 
wing collar and black bow tie. Dr. Slingsby’s cross- 
examination was directed to ascertaining as near as pos- 
sible the time when the murder was committed, but this 
was a point on which the witness allowed himself to be 
irritatingly indefinite. The murder might have taken 
place three or four hours before midnight on the 18th 
of August, and on the other hand it might have taken 
place any time up to three or four hours after midnight. 

Hill, who had not been available as a witness at the 
police court — being then on the way back from America 
in response to a cablegram from Crewe — reappeared as a 
witness. He looked much more at ease in the witness-box 
than on the occasion when he gave evidence against 
Birchill. He had fully recovered from his terror of 
being arrested for the murder, and obviously had much 
satisfaction in giving evidence against the man who, ac- 
cording to his impression, had tried to bring the crime 
home to him. 

He gave evidence as to the unexpected return of his 
master from Scotland on the 18th of August, and also 
in regard to the relations between his master and Mrs. 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


3i3 


Holymead. On several occasions he had seen his master 
kiss Mrs. Holymead, and once he had heard the door of 
the room in which they were together being locked. 

Two new witnesses were called to testify to the sug- 
gestion of the prosecution that illicit relations had ex- 
isted between Sir Horace Fewbanks and Mrs. Holy- 
mead. These were Philip Williams, who had been the 
dead man’s chauffeur, and Dorothy Mason, who had been 
housemaid at Riversbrook. The chauffeur gave evidence 
as to meeting Mrs. Holymead’s car at various places in 
the country. He formed the opinion from the first that 
these meetings between Sir Horace and the lady were 
not accidental. 

The last of the prosecution’s witnesses was the legal 
shorthand writer who had taken the official report of the 
trial of Birchill. In response to the request of Mr. 
Walters, he read from his notebook the final passage in 
the opening address delivered by the prisoner at that trial 
as defending Counsel : “ Tt is my duty to convince you 
that my client is not guilty, or, in other words, to convince 
you that the murder was committed before he reached the 
house. It is only with the greatest reluctance that I take 
upon myself the responsibility of pointing an accusing 
finger at another man. In crimes of this kind you can- 
not expect to get anything but circumstantial evidence. 
But there are degrees of circumstantial evidence, and my 
duty to my client lays upon me the obligation of point- 
ing out to you that there is one person against whom 
the existing circumstantial evidence is stronger than it is 
against my client.’ ” 

Mr. Lethbridge was unexpectedly brief in his opening 
address. He ridiculed the idea that a man like the prisoner, 
trained in the atmosphere of the law, would take the law 
into his own hands in seeking revenge for a wrong that 
had been done to him. According to the prosecution the 
prisoner had calmly and deliberately carried out this mur- 
der. He had sent a letter to Sir Horace Fewbanks with 
the object of inducing him to return to London, and had 


314 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


subsequently gone to Riversbrook and shot the man 
who had been his lifelong friend. Could anything be 
more improbable than to suppose that a man of the ac- 
cused’s training, intellect, and force of character, would 
be swayed by a gust of passion into committing such a 
dreadful crime like an immature ignorant youth of un- 
balanced temperament ? The discovery that his wife and 
his friend were carrying on an intrigue would be more 
likely to fill him with disgust than inspire him with 
murderous rage. He would not deny that accused had 
gone up to Riversbrook a few hours after Sir Horace 
Fewbanks returned from Scotland ; he would admit that 
when the accused sought this interview he knew that his 
quondam friend had done him the greatest wrong one 
man could do another ; but he emphatically denied that the 
prisoner killed Sir Horace Fewbanks or threatened to 
take his life. 

His learned friend had asked why had not the pris- 
oner gone to the police after the murder was discovered 
and told them that he had seen Sir Horace at Rivers- 
brook that night. The answer to that was clear and 
emphatic. He did not want to take the police into his 
confidence with regard to the relations that had existed be- 
tween his wife and the dead man. He wanted to save 
his wife’s name from scandal. Was not that a natural 
impulse for a high-minded man? The prisoner had be- 
lieved that in due course the police would discover the 
actual murderer, and that in the meantime the scandal 
which threatened his wife’s name would be buried with 
the man who had wronged her. If the prisoner could 
have prevented it his wife’s name would not have been 
dragged into this case even for the purpose of saving 
himself from injustice. But the prosecution, in order to 
establish a motive for the crime, had dragged this scandal 
into light. He did not blame the prosecution in the least 
for that. In fact he was grateful to his learned friend 
for doing so, for it had released him from a promise 
extracted from him by the prisoner not to make any use of 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


3i5 


the matter in his conduct of the case. The defence was 
that, although the accused man had gone to Riversbrook 
on the night of the 18th of August to accuse Sir Horace 
Fewbanks of base treachery, he went there unarmed, and 
with no intention of committing violence. No threats 
were used and no shot was fired during the interview. 
And in proof of the latter contention he intended to call 
witnesses to prove that Sir Horace Fewbanks was alive 
after the prisoner had left the house. 

The name of Daniel Kemp was loudly called by the 
ushers, and when Kemp crossed the court on the way 
to the witness-box, Chippenfield and Crewe, who had 
returned to the court after giving their evidence, looked 
at one another. 

“He’s a dead man,” whispered Chippenfield, nodding 
his head towards the prisoner, “if this is a sample of 
their witnesses.” 

Kemp had brushed himself up for his appearance in 
the witness-box. He wore a new ready-made tweed suit ; 
his thick neck was encased in a white linen collar which 
he kept fingering with one hand as though trying to loosen 
it for his greater comfort; and his hair had been plastered 
flat on his head with plenty of cold water. His red and 
scratched chin further indicated that he had taken con- 
siderable pains with a razor to improve his personal ap- 
pearance in keeping with his unwonted part of a respect- 
able witness in a place which knew a more sinister side 
of him. As he stood in the witness-box, awkwardly avoid- 
ing the significant glances that the Scotland Yard men 
and the police cast at him, he appeared to be more nerv- 
ous and anxious than he usually was when in the dock. 
But Crewe, who was watching him closely, was struck 
by the look of dog-like devotion he hurriedly cast at the 
weary face of the man in the dock before he commenced 
to give his evidence. 

He told the court a remarkable story. He declared that 
Birchill had told him on the 1 6th of August that he had 
a job on at Riversbrook, and had asked him to join him 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


316 

in it. When Birchill explained the details witness de- 
clined to have a hand in it. He did not like these put-up 
jobs. 

Mr. Lethbridge interposed to explain to any particu- 
larly unsophisticated jurymen that “a put-up job” meant 
a burglary that had been arranged with the connivance 
of a servant in the house to be broken into. 

Kemp declared that the reason he had declined to have 
anything to do with the project to burgle Riversbrook was 
that he felt sure Hill would squeak if the police threat- 
ened him when they came to investigate the burglary. He 
happened to be at Hampstead on the evening of the 18th 
of August and he took a walk along Tanton Gardens to 
have another look at the place which Birchill was to break 
into. It had occurred to him that things might not be 
square, and that Hill might have laid a trap for Birchill. 
That was about 9.30 p. m. He was just able to catch a 
glimpse of the house through the plantation in front of 
it. The mansion appeared all in darkness, but while he 
looked he was surprised to see a light appear in the upper 
portion of the house which was visible from the road. He 
went through the carriage gates with the intention of get- 
ting a closer view of the house. As he walked along he 
heard a quick footstep on the gravel walk behind him, 
and he slipped into the plantation. Looking out from 
behind a tree he could discern the figure of a man walk- 
ing quickly towards the house. As he drew near him 
the man paused, struck a match and looked at his watch, 
and he saw that it was Mr. Holymead. Witness’s sus- 
picions in regard to a trap having been laid for Birchill 
were strengthened, and he decided to ascertain what was 
in the wind. He crept through the plantation to the edge 
of the garden in front of the house. From there he 
could hear voices in a room upstairs. He tried to make 
out what was being said, but he was too far away for 
that. In about half an hour the voices stopped, and a 
minute later a man came out of the house and walked 
down the path through the garden, and entered the car- 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 317 

riage drive close to where witness was concealed in the 
plantation. As he passed him witness saw that it was 
Mr. Holymead. 

About five minutes afterwards the window upstairs in 
the room where the voices had come from was opened, 
and Sir Horace Fewbanks leaned out and looked at 
the sky as if to ascertain what sort of a night it was. 
He was quite certain that it was Sir Horace Few- 
banks. He was well acquainted with that gentleman’s 
features, having been sentenced by him three years ago. 
Sir Horace seemed quite calm and collected. Witness 
was so surprised to see him, after having been told by 
Birchill that he was in Scotland, that he did not take his 
eyes off him during the two or three minutes that he 
remained at the window, breathing the night air. Sir 
Horace was fully dressed. He had on a light tweed suit, 
and he was wearing a soft shirt of a light colour, with a 
stiff collar, and a small black bow tie. When Sir Horace 
closed the window witness jumped over the fence back 
into the wood and made his way to the Hampstead Tube 
station with the intention of warning Birchill that Sir 
Horace Fewbanks was at home. He waited at the station 
over an hour, and as he did not see Birchill he then made 
his way home. During the time he was in the garden at 
Riversbrook listening to the voices, he heard no sound 
of a shot. ( He was certain that no shot had been fired 
inside the house from the time the prisoner entered the 
house until he left. Had a shot been fired witness could 
not have failed to hear it. 

There could be no doubt that the effect produced in 
court by the evidence of the witness was extremely fa- 
vourable to the prisoner. Kemp had told a plain, straight- 
forward story. The fact that he had shown no reluctance 
in disclosing in his evidence that he was a criminal and 
the associate of criminals seemed to add to the credi- 
bility of his evidence. It was felt that he would not 
.have come to court to swear falsely on behalf of a man 


3 i8 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

who was so far removed from the class to which he 
belonged. 

While Kemp was giving his evidence, Crewe had des- 
patched a messenger to his chambers in Holborn for Joe. 
When the boy returned with the messenger Kemp was 
still in the witness-box, undergoing an examination at 
the hands of the judge. Sir Henry Hodson seemed to 
have been impressed by the witness’s story, for he asked 
Kemp a number of questions, and entered his answers in 
his notebook. 

“Joe,” whispered Crewe, as the boy stole noiselessly be- 
hind him, “look at that man in the witness-box. Have 
you ever seen him before?” 

“Rayther, guv’nor !” whispered the boy in reply. “Why, 
it’s ’im who tried to frighten me in the loft if I didn’t 
promise to give up watching Mr. Holymead.” 

“You are quite certain, Joe?” 

“Certain sure, guv’nor. There ain’t no charnst of me 
mistaking a man like that.” 

Crewe listened intently to Kemp’s evidence, and he 
watched the man’s face as he swore that he had seen Sir 
Horace Fewbanks leaning out of the window after Holy- 
mead had left the house. He hastily took out a note- 
book, scribbled a few lines on one of the leaves, tore it 
out, and beckoned to a court usher. 

“Take that to Mr. Walters,” he whispered. 

The man did so. Mr. Walters opened the note, ad- 
justed his glasses and read it. He started with sur- 
prise, read the note through again, then turned round 
as though in search of the writer. When he saw Crewe 
he raised his eyebrows interrogatively, and the detec- 
tive nodded emphatically. 

Mr. Lethbridge sat down, having finished his exami- 
nation of Kemp. Mr. Walters, with another glance at 
Crewe’s note, rose slowly in his place. 

“I ask Your Honour that I may be allowed to defer 
until the morning my cross-examination of this witness,” 
he said. “I am, of course, in Your Honour’s hands in this 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


319 


matter, but I can assure Your Honour that it is desirable 
— highly desirable — in the interests of justice that the 
cross-examination of the witness should be postponed.” 

“I protest, Your Honour, against the cross-examination 
of the witness being deferred,” said Mr. Lethbridge. 
“There is no justification of it.” 

“I would urge Your Honour to accede to my request,” 
said Mr. Walters. “It is a matter of the utmost im- 
portance.” 

“Is your next witness available, Mr. Lethbridge?” 
asked the judge. 

“Surely, Your Honour, you’re not going to allow the 
cross-examination of this witness to be postponed ?” pro- 
tested Mr. Lethbridge. “My learned friend has given 
no reason for such a course.” 

Sir Henry Hodson looked at the court clock. 

“It is now within a quarter of an hour of the ordinary 
time for adjournment,” he began. “I think the fairest 
way out of the difficulty will be to adjourn the court 
now until to-morrow morning.” 

There was a loud buzz of conversation when the court 
adjourned. After asking Chippenfield and Rolfe to wait 
for him, Crewe made his way to Mr. Walters, and, 
after a few whispered words with that gentleman, Mr. 
Mathers, his junior, and Mr. Salter, the instructing solici- 
tor, he returned to Chippenfield and Rolfe and asked 
them to accompany him in a taxi-cab to Riversbrook. 

“What do you want to go out there for?” asked In- 
spector Chippenfield. “You don’t expect to discover 
anything there this late in the day, do you?” 

“I want to find out whether this man Kemp is lying or 
telling the truth.” 

“Of course he is lying,” replied the positive police of- 
ficial. “When you’ve had as much experience with crim- 
inals as I have had, Mr. Crewe, you won’t expect a 
word of truth from any of them.” 

“Well, let us go to Riversbrook and prove that he is 
lying,” said Crewe. 


3 20 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


\ 

a 

“We’ll go with you,” said Inspector Chippenfield, 
speaking for Rolfe and himself. He did not understand 
how Crewe expected to obtain any evidence at Rivers- 
brook about the truth or falsity of Kemp’s story, but he 
did not intend to admit that. “But you can set your mind 
at rest. No jury will believe Kemp after we’ve given 
them his record in cross-examination.” 

Rolfe, whose association with Crewe in the case had 
awakened in him a keen admiration for the private de- 
tective’s methods and abilities, permitted himself to defy 
his superior officer to the extent of saying that “the best 
way to prove Kemp a liar is to prove that his story is 
false.” 

During the drive to Hampstead from the Old Bailey 
the three men discussed Kemp and his past record. It 
was recalled that less than twelve months ago, while he 
was serving three years for burglary, his daughter had 
provided the newspapers with a sensation by dying in the 
dock while sentence was being passed on her. According 
to Inspector Chippenfield, who had been in charge 
of the case against her, she was a stylish, good-locking 
girl, and when dressed up might easily have been mistaken 
for a lady. 

“She got in touch with a flash gang of railway thieves 
from America,” said Inspector Chippenfield, help- 
ing himself to a cigar from Crewe’s proffered case. “They 
used to work the express trains, robbing the passengers in 
the sleeping berths. She was neatly caught at Victoria 
Station in calling for a dressing-case that had been left 
at the cloak room by one of the gang. Inside the dress- 
ing-case was Lady Sinclair’s jewel case, which had been 
stolen on the journey up from Brighton. The thief, 
being afraid that he might be stopped at Victoria Sta- 
tion when the loss of the jewel case was discovered, had 
placed it inside his dressing-case, and had left the dress- 
ing-case at the cloak room. He sent Dora Kemp for it 
a few days later, as he believed he had outwitted the 
police. But I’d got on to the track of the jewels, and 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


321 


after removing them from the dressing-case in the cloak 
room I had the cloak room watched. When Dora Kemp 
called for the dressing-case and handed in the cloak- 
room ticket, the attendant gave my men the signal and 
she was arrested.” • 

“She died of heart disease while on trial, didn't she?” 
asked Crewe. 

“Yes,” replied Inspector Chippenfield. “Sir Hor- 
ace Fewbanks was the judge. He gave her five years. 
And no sooner were the words out of his mouth than she 
threw up her hands and fell forward in the dock. She 
was dead when they picked her up.” 

“She was as game as they make them,” put in Rolfe. 
“We tried to get her to give the others away, but she 
wouldn’t, though she would have got off with a few 
months if she had. The gang got frightened and cleared 
out. They left her in the lurch, but she wouldn’t give one 
of them away.” 

“It was Holymead who defended her,” said Chippen- 
field. “It was a strange thing for him to do — leading 
barristers don’t like touching criminal cases, because, as 
a rule, there is little money and less credit to be got out 
of them. But Holymead did some queer things at times, 
as you know. He must have taken up the case out of 
interest in the girl herself, for I’m certain she hadn’t 
the money to brief him. And I did hear afterwards 
that Holymead undertook to see that she was decently 
buried.” 

“Why, that explains it !” exclaims Crewe, in the voice 
of a man who had solved a difficulty. 

“Explains what?” asked Inspector Chippenfield. 

“Explains why her father has taken the risk of com- 
ing forward in this case to give evidence for Holymead. 
Gratitude for what Holymead had done for his girl while 
he was in prison. My experience of criminals is that 
they frequently show more real gratitude to those who do 
them a good turn than people in a respectable walk of 
life. Besides, you know what a sentimental value people 


322 THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

of his class attach to seeing their kin buried decently. 
If Holymead hadn’t come forward the girl would have 
been buried as a pauper, in all probability/’ 

“But I don’t see that old Kemp is taking much risk,” 
said Inspector Chippenfield. “He is only perjuring 
himself, and he is too used to that to regard it as a 
risk.” 

“Don’t you think he will be in an awkward position 
if the jury were to acquit Holymead?” asked Crewe. 
“One jury has already said that Sir Horace Fewbanks 
was dead when Birchill broke into the house, and if this 
jury believes Kemp’s story and says Sir Horace was 
alive when Holymead left it, don’t you think Kemp will 
conclude that it will be best for him to disappear? 
Some one must have killed Sir Horace after Holymead 
left, and before Birchill arrived.” 

“Whew! I never thought of that,” said Rolfe can- 
didly. 

“Kemp is a liar from first to last,” said Inspector 
Chippenfield decisively. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


When they reached Riversbrook they entered the car- 
riage drive and traversed the plantation until they stood 
on the edge of the Italian garden facing the house. The 
gaunt, irregular mansion stood empty and deserted, for 
Miss Fewbanks had left the place after her father’s 
funeral, with the determination not to return to it. The 
wind whistled drearily through the nooks and crannies 
of the unfinished brickwork of the upper story, and a 
faint evening mist rose from the soddened garden and 
floated in a thin cloud past the library window, as though 
the ghost of the dead judge were revisiting the house 
in search of his murderer. The garden had lost its sum- 
mer beauty and was littered with dead leaves from the 
trees. The gathering greyness of an autumn twilight 
added to the dreariness of the scene. 

“Kemp didn’t say how far he stood from the house,” 
said Crewe, “but we’ll assume he stood at the edge of the 
plantation — about where we are standing now — to begin 
with. How far are we from that library window, Chip- 
penfield ?” 

“About fifty yards, I should say,” said the inspector, 
measuring it with his eye. 

“I should say seventy,” said Rolfe. 

“And I say somewhere midway between the two,” 
said Crewe, with a smile. “But we will soon see. Just 
hold down the end of this measuring tape, one of you.” 
He produced a measuring tape as he spoke, and started 
to unwind it, walking rapidly towards the house as he 
did so. “Sixty-two yards !” he said, as he returned. He 
made a note of the distance in his pocket-book. “So 
much for that,” he said, “but that’s not enough. I want 
you to stand under the library window, Rolfe, by that 

323 


3 2 4 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


chestnut-tree in front of it, and act as pivot for the 
measuring tape while I look at that window from various 
angles. My idea is to go in a semicircle right round the 
garden, starting at the garage by the edge of the wood, 
so as to see the library window and measure the distance 
at every possible point at which Kemp could have 
stood.” 

“You’re going to a lot of trouble for nothing, if your 
object is to try and prove that he couldn’t have seen 
into the window,” grunted Inspector Chippenfield, 
in a mystified voice. “Why, I can see plainly into the 
window from here.” 

Crewe smiled, but did not reply. Followed by Rolfe, 
he went back to the tree by the library window, where 
he posted Rolfe with the end of the tape in his hand. 
Then he walked slowly back across the garden in the 
direction of the garage, keeping his eye on the library 
window on the first floor from which Kemp, according 
to his evidence, had seen Sir Horace leaning out after 
Holymead had left the house. He returned to the tree, 
noting the measurement in his book as he did so, and 
then repeated the process, walking backwards with his 
eye fixed on the window, but this time taking a line more 
to the left. Again and again he repeated the process, 
until finally he had walked backwards from the tree in 
narrow segments of a big semicircle, finishing up on the 
boundary of the Italian garden on the other side of the 
grounds, and almost directly opposite to the garage from 
which he had started. 

“There’s no use going further back than that,” he said, 
turning to Inspector Chippenfield, who had fol- 
lowed him round, smoking one of Crewe’s cigars, and 
very much mystified by the whole proceedings, though 
he would not have admitted it on any account. “At 
this point we practically lose sight of the window al- 
together, except for an oblique glimpse. Certainly Kemp 
would not come as far back as this — he would have no 
object in doing so.” 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


325 


“I quite agree with you,” said Inspector Chippenfield. 
“He would stand more in the front of the house. The 
tree in front of the house doesn’t obstruct the view of 
the window to any extent.” 

The tree to which Inspector Chippenfield referred 
was a solitary chestnut-tree, which grew close to 
the house a little distance from the main entrance, and 
reached to a height of about forty feet. Its branches 
were entirely bare of leaves, for the autumn frosts and 
winds had swept the foliage away. 

Rolfe, who had been watching Crewe’s manoeuvres 
curiously, walked up to them with the tape in his hand. 
He glanced at the library window on the first floor as he 
reached them. 

“Kemp could have seen the library window if he had 
stood here,” he said. “I should say that if the blind 
were up it would be possible to see right into the room.” 

“What do you say, Chippenfield?” asked Crewe, turn- 
ing to that officer. 

Inspector Chippenfield had taken his stand stolidly on 
the centre path of the Italian garden, directly in front of 
the window of the library. 

“I say Kemp is a liar,” he replied, knocking the ash 
oflf his cigar. “A d — d liar,” he added emphatically. “I 
don’t believe he was here at all that night.” 

“But if he was here, do you think he saw Sir Horace 
leaning out of the window?” 

“I don’t see what was to prevent him,” was the reply. 
“But my point is that he was a liar and that he wasn’t 
here at all.” 

“And you, Rolfe — do you think Kemp could have seen 
Sir Horace leaning out of the window if he had been 
here ?” 

“I should say so,” remarked Rolfe, in a somewhat 
puzzled tone. 

“I am sorry I cannot agree with either of you,” said 
Crewe. “I think Kemp was here, but I am sure he 
couldn’t have seen Sir Horace from the window. Kemp 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


326 

has been up here during the past few days in order 
to prepare his evidence, and he’s been led astray by a 
very simple mistake. If a man were to lean outside the 
library window now there would not be much difficulty 
in identifying him, but when the murder took place 
it would have been impossible to see him from any part 
of the garden or grounds.” 

“Why?” demanded Inspector Chippenfield. 

“Because it was the middle of summer when Sir Hor- 
ace Fewbanks was murdered. At that time that chestnut- 
tree would be in full leaf, and the foliage would hide 
the window completely. Look at the number of 
branches the tree has ! They stretch all over the 
window and even round the corners of that unfinished 
brickwork on the first floor by the side of the library 
window. A man could no more see through that tree 
in summer time than he could see through a stone wall.” 

“What did I tell you?” exclaimed Inspector Chip- 
penfield in the voice of a man whose case had been 
fully proved. “Didn’t I say Kemp was a liar? We’ll 
call evidence in rebuttal to prove that he is a liar — 
that he couldn’t have seen the window. And after 
Holymead is convicted I’ll see if I cannot get a warrant 
out for Kemp for perjury.” 

“And yet Kemp did see Sir Horace that night,” said 
Crewe quietly. 

“How do you know? What makes you say that?” 
The inspector was unpleasantly startled by Crewe’s con- 
tention. 

“He was able to describe accurately how Sir Horace 
was dressed — for one thing,” responded Crewe. 

“He might have got that from Seldon’s evidence,” 
said Inspector Chippenfield thoughtfully. “He may 
have had some one in court to tell him what Seldon 
said.” 

“You do not think Lethbridge would be a party to such 
tactics?” said Crewe. “No, no. One could tell from the 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


327 


way he examined Seldon and Kemp on the point that it 
was in his brief.” 

“But the fact that Kemp knew how Sir Horace was 
dressed doesn’t prove that he saw Sir Horace after 
Holymead left the house,” said Rolfe. “Kemp may have 
seen Sir Horace before Holymead arrived.” 

“Quite true, Rolfe,” said Crewe. “I haven’t lost sight 
of that point. I think you will agree with me that 
there is a bit of a mystery here which wants clearing up.” 

They drove back to town, and, in accordance with 
the arrangement Crewe had made with Mr. Walters 
before leaving the court, they waited on that gentleman 
at his chambers in Lincoln’s Inn. There Crewe told him 
of the result of their investigations at Riversbrook. Mr. 
Walters was professionally pleased at the prospect of 
destroying the evidence of Kemp. He was not a hard- 
hearted man, and personally he would have preferred to 
see Holymead acquitted, if that were possible, but as 
the prosecuting Counsel he felt a professional satisfac- 
tion in being placed in the position to expose perjured 
evidence. 

“Excellent ! excellent !” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands 
with gratification as he spoke. “Knowing what we know 
now, it will be a comparatively easy task to expose 
the witness Kemp under cross-examination, and show 
his evidence to be false.” Mr. Walters looked as though 
he relished the prospect. 

It was arranged that Inspector Chippenfield 
should be called to give evidence in rebuttal as to the 
impossibility of seeing the library window through the 
tree, and that an arboriculturist should also be called. 
Mr. Walters agreed to have the expert in attendance at 
the court in the morning. 

But Crewe had something more on his mind, and he 
waited until Chippenfield and Rolfe had taken their de- 
parture in order to put his views before the prosecuting 
counsel. Then he pointed out to him that to prove 
that Kemp’s evidence was false was merely to obtain a 


328 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


negative result. What he wanted was a positive result. 
In other words, he wanted Kemp’s true story. 

“You do not think, then, that Kemp is merely com- 
mitting perjury in order to get Holymead off?” asked 
Walters meditatively. “You think he is hiding some- 
thing?” 

Crewe replied, with his faint, inscrutable smile, that 
he had no doubt whatever that such was the case. He 
thought Kemp’s true story might be obtained if Walters 
directed his cross-examination to obtaining the truth in- 
stead of merely to exposing falsehood. It was evident 
to him that Kemp had come forward in order to save 
the prisoner. How far was he prepared to go in carry- 
ing out that object? When he was made to realise that 
his perjury, instead of helping Holymead, had helped 
to convince the jury of the prisoner’s guilt, would he 
tell the true story of how much he knew? 

“My own opinion is that he will,” continued Crewe. 
“I studied his face very closely while he was in the box 
to-day, and I am convinced he would go far — even to 
telling the truth — in order to save the only man who was 
ever kind to him.” 

Walters was slow in coming round to Crewe’s point 
of view. He had a high opinion of Crewe, for in his 
association with the case he had realised how skilfully 
Crewe had worked out the solution of the Riversbrook 
mystery. But he took the view that now the case was 
before the court it was entirely a matter for the legal 
profession to deal with. He pointed out to Crewe the 
professional view that his own duty did not extend 
beyond the exposure of Kemp’s perjury. It was not his 
duty to give Kemp a second chance — an opportunity to 
qualify his evidence. He believed the defence had 
called Kemp in the belief that his evidence was true, but 
the defence must take the consequences if they built up 
their case on perjured evidence which they had not 
taken the trouble to sift. 

Crewe entered into the professional view sympathet- 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


329 


ically, but he was not to be turned from his purpose. 
He felt that too much was at stake, and he lifted the 
discussion out of the atmosphere of professional pro- 
cedure into that of their common manhood. 

“Walters, I know you are not a vain man,” he said, 
earnestly. “A personal triumph in this case means even 
less to you than it does to me. I have built up what I 
regard as an overwhelming case against Holymead. But 
it is based on circumstantial evidence, and I would will- 
ingly see the whole thing toppled over if by that means 
we could get the final truth. This man Kemp knows the 
truth, and you are in a position in which you can get 
the truth from him. It may be the last chance anyone 
will have of getting it. Apart from all questions of 
professional procedure, isn’t there an obligation upon 
you to get at the truth ?” 

“If you put it that way, I believe there is,” replied 
Walters slowly and meditatively. There was a pause, 
and then he spoke with a sudden impulse. “Yes, Crewe; 
you can depend on me. I’ll do my best.” 


CHAPTER XXXII 


The public interest in the Holymead trial on the sec- 
ond day was even greater than on the first. It was re- 
alised that Kemp’s evidence had given an unexpected turn 
to the proceedings, and that if it could be substantiated 
the jury’s verdict would be “not guilty.” There were 
confident persons who insisted that Kemp’s evidence was 
sufficient to acquit the prisoner. But every one grasped 
the fact that the Counsel for the prosecution, by his 
action in applying for an adjournment of the cross-ex- 
amination of Kemp, clearly realised that his case was 
in danger if the evidence of the first witness for the de- 
fence could not be broken down. 

The public appetite for sensation having been whetted 
by sensational newspaper reports of the latest phase of 
the Riversbrook mystery, there was a great rush of peo- 
ple to the Old Bailey early on the morning of the second 
day to witness the final stages of the trial. The queue in 
Newgate Street commenced to assemble at daybreak, 
and grew longer and longer as the day wore on, but it 
was composed of persons who did not know that there 
was not the slightest possibility of their gaining admit- 
tance to Number One Court. The policeman who was 
invested with the duty of keeping the queue close to the 
wall of the building forbore to break this sad news to 
them. Being faithful to the limitations of the official 
mind, he believed that the right thing to do was to let 
the people in the queue receive this important informa- 
tion from the sergeant inside. How was he to know with- 
out authority from his superior officer that any of these 
people wanted to be admitted to Number One Court? 
So the policeman pared his nails, gallantly “minding” the 
places of pretty girls in the queue who, worn out by 
330 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


33i 

hours of waiting’ in the cold, desired to slip away to a 
neighbouring tea-shop to get a cup of tea before the court 
opened, and sternly rebuking enterprising youths who en- 
deavoured to wedge themselves in ahead of their proper 
place. 

The body of the court was packed before the proceed- 
ings commenced. The number of ladies present was even 
greater than on the first day, and the resources of the 
ushers were severely taxed to find accommodation for 
them all. In the back row Crewe noticed Mrs. Holy- 
mead, accompanied by Mademoiselle Chiron. They had 
not been in court on the previous day. Mrs. Holymead 
seemed anxious to escape notice, but Crewe could see 
that although she looked anxious and distressed, she 
was buoyed up by a new hope, which doubtless had come 
to her since Kemp had given his evidence. 

There was an expectant silence in the court when Mr. 
Justice Hodson took his seat and the names of the 
jurymen were called over. Kemp entered the witness- 
box with a more confident air than he had worn the 
previous day. Mr. Walters rose to begin his cross-ex- 
amination, and the witness faced the barrister with the 
air of an old hand who knew the game, and was not to 
be caught by any legal tricks or traps. 

“You said yesterday, witness,” commenced Mr. Wal- 
ters, adjusting his glasses and glancing from his brief to 
the witness and from the witness back to the brief again, 
“that you saw the prisoner enter the gate at Riversbrook 
about 9.30 on the night of the 18th of August?” 

“Yes.” The monosyllable was flung out as insolently 
as possible. The speaker watched his interrogator with 
the lowering eyes of a man at war with society, and who 
realised that he was facing one of his natural enemies. 

“Did he see you?” 

“No.” 

“You are quite sure of that?” 

“Haven’t I just said so?” 

“Do not be insolent, witness” — it was the judge’s warn- 


332 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


ing voice that broke into the cross-examination — “an- 
swer the questions/’ 

“How long was it after the prisoner entered the car- 
riage drive that you went to the edge of the plantation 
and heard voices upstairs?” continued Mr. Walters. 

“I went as soon as Mr. Holymead passed me.” 

“How far were you from the house?” 

“About sixty yards.” 

“And from that distance you could hear the voices?” 

“Yes.” 

“Plainly?” 

“Not very. I could hear the voices, but I couldn’t hear 
what they were saying.” 

“Were they angry voices?” 

“They seemed to me to be talking loudly.” 

“Yet you couldn’t hear what they were saying?” 

“No; I was sixty yards away.” 

“You said in your evidence in chief that the talking 
continued half an hour. Did you time it?” 

“No.” 

“Then what made you swear that?” 

“I said about half an hour. I smoked out a pipeful of 
tobacco while I was standing there, and that would be 
about half an hour.” Kemp disclosed his broken teeth 
in a faint grin. 

“What happened next?” 

“I heard the front door slam, and I saw somebody 
walking across the garden, and go into the carriage drive 
towards the gate.” 

“Did you recognise who it was?” 

“Yes ; Mr. Holymead.” Kemp looked at the prisoner 
as he gave the answer. 

“You swear it was the prisoner?” 

“I do.” 

“Let me recall your evidence in chief, witness. You 
swore that you identified Mr. Holymead as he went in 
because he struck a match to look at the time as he passed 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


333 

you, and you saw his face. Did he strike matches as 
he went out?” 

“No” 

“Then how are you able to swear so positively as to 
his identity in the dark?” 

Kemp considered a moment before replying. 

“Because I know him well and I was close to him,” he 
said at length. “I was close enough to him almost to 
touch him. I knew him by his walk, and by the look 
of him. It was him right enough, I’ll swear to that.” 

“I put it to you, witness,” persisted Counsel, “that you 
could not positively identify a man in a plantation at 
that time of night. Do you still swear it was Mr. Holy- 
mead ?” 

“I do,” replied Kemp doggedly. 

“What did you do then?” 

“I stayed where I was.” 

“What for?” 

“I don’t know. I didn’t have any particular reason. 
I just stayed there watching.” 

“Did you think the prisoner might return?” 

“No,” replied the witness quickly. “Why should I 
think that?” 

“How long did you stay watching the house?” 

“It might be a matter of ten minutes more.” 

“And the prisoner didn’t return during that time?” 

“No,” replied the witness emphatically. 

“What did you do after that?” 

“I went to the Tube station.” 

“Prisoner might have returned after you left?” 

“I suppose he might,” replied the witness reluctantly. 

“Well, now, witness, you say you stayed ten minutes 
after Holymead left, and during that time Sir Horace 
opened the window and leaned out of it?” 

“Yes.” 

“You saw him distinctly?” 

“Yes.” 

“You are sure it was Sir Horace Fewbanks ?” 


334 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


“Yes.” 

“Now, witness,” said Mr. Walters, suddenly changing 
his tone to one of more severity than he had previ- 
ously used, “you have told us that you heard Sir Horace 
Fewbanks and the prisoner in the library while you 
stood in the wood by the garage, and that subsequently 
you saw Sir Horace leaning out of the window after 
the prisoner had gone. You are quite sure you were 
able to see and hear all this from where you stood?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you aware, witness, that there is a large chestnut- 
tree at the side of the library, in front of the window?” 

Kemp considered for a moment. 

“Yes,” he said. 

“And did not that tree obstruct your view of the library 
window ?” 

“No.” 

“Witness,” said Mr. Walters solemnly, “listen to 
me. This tree did not obstruct your view when you went 
to Riversbrook a week or so ago to decide on the nature 
of the evidence you would give in this court. It is bare 
of leaves now, and you could see the library window 
and even see into the library from where you stood. But 
I put it to you that on the 18th of August, when this 
tree was covered with its summer foliage, you could no 
more have seen the library window behind its branches 
than you could have seen the inhabitants of Mars. What 
answer have you got to that, witness?” 

There was a slight stir in court — an expression of the 
feeling of tension among the spectators. Kemp drew 
the back of his hand across his lips, then moistened his 
lips with his tongue. 

“Come, witness, give me an answer,” thundered prose- 
cuting Counsel. 

“I tell you I saw him after Mr. Holymead had left,” 
declared Kemp defiantly. His voice had suddenly be- 
come hoarse. 

To the surprise of the members of the legal profes- 


335 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 

sion who were in court, Mr. Walters, instead of press- 
ing home his advantage, switched off to something 
else. 

I believe you have a feeling of gratitude towards 
the prisoner ?” he asked, in a milder tone. 

T have,” said Kemp. His defiant, insolent attitude 
had suddenly vanished, and he gave the impression of 
a man who feared that every question contained a trap. 

“He did something for a relative of yours which at 
that time greatly relieved your mind?” 

“He did, and I’ll never forget it.” 

“Well, we won’t go further into that at present. But 
it is a fact that you would like to do him a good turn ?” 

“Yes.” 

“You came here with the intention of doing him a 
good turn?” 

Kemp considered for a moment before answering : 

“Yes.” 

“You came here with the intention of giving evidence 
that would get him off?” 

“Yes.” 

“You came here with the intention of committing per- 
jury in order to get him off?” Mr. Walters wafted, but 
there was no reply to the question, and he added, “You 
see what your perjured evidence has done for him?” 

“What has it done?” asked Kemp sullenly. 

“It has established the prisoner’s guilt beyond all rea- 
sonable doubt in the minds of men of common sense. 
You did not see Sir Horace Fewbanks that night after 
the prisoner left him. You could not have seen him 
even if he had leaned out of the window. But your 
whole story is a lie, because Sir Horace was dead when 
the prisoner left him.” 

“He was not,” shouted Kemp. “I saw him alive. I 
saw him as plain as I see you now.” 

The man in court who was most fascinated by the 
witness was Crewe. He had watched every movement 
of Kemp’s face, every change in the tone of his voice. 


33 ^ 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


“I wonder what the fool will say next,” whispered 
Inspector Chippenfield to Crewe. 

‘‘He will tell us how Sir Horace Fewbanks was shot,” 
was Crewe’s reply. 

Mr. Walters approached a step nearer to the wit- 
ness-box. “You saw him as plainly as you see me now?” 
he repeated. 

“Yes,” declared Kemp, who, it was evident, was labour- 
ing under great excitement. “You say I came here to 
commit perjury if it would get him off.” He pointed 
with a dramatic finger to the man in the dock. “I did. 
And I came here to get him off by telling the truth if 
perjury didn’t do it. You say I’ve helped to put the 
rope round his neck. But I’m man enough to tell the 
truth. I’ll get him off even if I have to swing for it 
myself.” 

This outburst from the witness-box created a sensa- 
tion in court. Many of the spectators stood up in order 
to get a better view of the witness, and some of the ladies 
even jumped on their seats. Mr. Justice Hodson was 
momentarily taken aback. His first instinct was to check 
the witness and to ask him to be calm, but the witness 
took no notice of him. He displayed his judicial au- 
thority by an impressive descent of an uplifted hand 
which compelled the unruly spectators to resume their 
seats. 

It was on Mr. Walters that Kemp concentrated his 
attention. It was Mr. Walters whom he set himself to 
convince as if he were the man who could set the pris- 
oner free. Of the rest of the people in court Kemp in 
his excitement had become oblivious. 

“Listen to me,” said Kemp, “and I’ll tell you who shot 
this scoundrel. He was a scoundrel, I say, and he ought 
to have been in gaol himself instead of sending other peo- 
ple there. I went up to the house that night to see if 
everything was clear, or whether that cur Hill had laid a 
trap — that part of my evidence is true. And from be- 
hind a tree in the plantation I saw Mr. Holymead pass 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


337 


me — he struck a match to look at the time, and I saw 
his face distinctly. A few minutes afterwards I heard 
loud, angry voices coming from somewhere upstairs in 
the house. I thought the best thing I could do was to 
find out what it was about. I said to myself that Mr. 
Holymead might want help. I walked across the garden 
and found that the hall door was wide open. I went 
inside and crept upstairs to the library. The light in 
the hall was turned on, as well as a little lamp on the 
turn of the staircase behind a marble figure holding some 
curtains, which led the way to the library. The library 
door was open an inch or two, and I listened. 

“I could hear them quite plainly. Mr. Holymead was 
telling him what he thought of him. And no wonder. 
It made my blood boil to think of such a scoundrel sit- 
ting on the bench and sentencing better men than him- 
self. I thought of the way in which he had killed my 
girl by giving her five years. It was the shock that killed 
her. Five years for stealing nothing, for she didn’t 
handle the jewels. And here he had been stealing a 
man’s wife and nothing said except what Mr. Holymead 
called him. I stood there listening in case they started 
to fight, and I might be wanted. But they didn’t. 

“ I heard Mr. Holymead step towards the door, and I 
slipped away from where I had been standing. I saw the 
door of another room near me, and I opened it and 
went in quickly. I closed the door behind me, but I 
did not shut it. I looked through the crack and saw 
Mr. Holymead making his way downstairs. He walked 
as if he didn’t see anything, and I watched him till he 
went through the curtains on the stairs at the bend of 
the staircase and I could see him no more. 

“Then I heard a step, and looking through the 
crack I saw the judge coming out of the library. He 
walked to the head of the stairs and began to walk slowly 
down them. But when he reached the bend where the 
curtains and the marble figure were, he turned round 
and walked up the stairs again. He walked along 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


338 

as though he was thinking, with his hands behind his 
back, and nodding his head a little, and a little cruel, 
crafty smile on his face. He passed so close to me 
that I could have touched him by putting out my hand, 
and he went into the library again, leaving the door 
open behind him. 

“Then suddenly, as I stood there, the thought came 
over me to go in to him and tell him what I thought 
about him. I opened the door softly so as not to frighten 
him, and walked out into the passage and into the li- 
brary, and as I did so I took my revolver out of my 
pocket and carried it in my hand. I wasn’t going to 
shoot him, but I meant to hold him up while I told him 
the truth. 

“He was standing at the opposite side of the room 
with his back towards me and a book in his hand, but 
a board creaked as I stepped on it, and he swung round 
quickly. He was surprised to see me, and no mistake. 
‘What do you want here?’ he said, in a sharp voice, and 
I could see by the way he eyed the revolver that he 
was frightened. Then I opened out on him and told 
him off for the damned scoundrel he was. And he didn’t 
like that either. He edged away to a corner, but I kept 
following him round the room telling him what I thought 
of him. And seeing him so frightened, I put the re- 
volver back in my pocket and walked close to him while 
I told him all the things I could think of. 

“As I thought of my poor girl that he’d killed I 
grew savage, and I told him that I had a good 
mind to break every bone in his body. He threatened 
to have me arrested for breaking into the place, but I 
only laughed and hit him across the face. He backed 
away from me with a wicked look in his eyes, and I fol- 
lowed him. He backed quickly towards the door, and 
before I knew what game he was up to he made a dart 
out of the room. But I was too quick for him. I got 
him at the head of the stairs and dragged him back into 
the room and shut the door and stood with my back 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 339 

against it. I told him I hadn’t finished with him. I had 
mastered him so quickly, and was able to handle him 
so easily, that I didn’t watch him as closely as I ought to 
have done. He had backed away to his desk with his hand 
behind him, and suddenly he brought it up with a re- 
volver in his hand. 

“ ‘Now it’s my turn/ he said to me with his cunning 
smile. ‘Throw up your hands/ 

“I saw then it was man for man. If I let him take 
me I was in for a good seven years. I’d sooner be dead 
than do seven years for him. ‘Shoot and be damned/ I 
said. I ducked as I spoke, and as I ducked I made a 
dive with my hand for my hip pocket where I had put 
my revolver. He fired and missed. He fired again, 
but his toy revolver missed fire, for I heard the hammer 
click. But that was his last chance. I fired at his heart 
and he dropped beside the desk. I didn’t wait for any- 
thing more — I bolted. I got tangled in the staircase cur- 
tains and fell down the stairs. As I was falling I thought 
what a nice trap I would be in if I broke my leg and had 
to lie there until the police came. But I wasn’t much 
hurt and I got up and dashed out of the house and over 
the fence into the wood, the way I came.” 

He stopped, and his gaze wandered round the hushed 
court till it rested on the prisoner, who with his hands 
grasping the rail of the dock had leaned forward in 
order to catch every word. Kemp turned his gaze 
from the man in the dock to the man in the scarlet robe 
on the bench, and it was to the judge that he addressed 
his concluding words. 

“You can call it murder, you can call it manslaughter, 
you can call it justifiable homicide, you can call it what 
you like, but what I say is that the man you have in 
the dock had nothing to do with it. It was me that killed 
him. Let him go, and put me in his place.” 

He held his hands outstretched with the wrists to- 
gether as though waiting for the handcuffs to be placed 
on them. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


An hour after the trial Crewe entered the chambers of 
Mr. Walters, K.C. 

“I congratulate you on the way you handled him in 
the witness-box/' said Crewe, who was warmly wel- 
comed by the barrister. “You did splendidly to get it 
all out of him — and so dramatically too." 

“I think it is you who deserves all the congratulations," 
replied Walters. “If it had not been for you there 
would not have been such a sensational development at 
the trial and in all probability Kemp's evidence would 
have got Holymead off." 

“Yes, I'm glad to think that Holymead would have 
got off even if I hadn't seen through Kemp," replied 
Crewe thoughtfully. “I made a bad mistake in being 
so confident that he was the guilty man." 

“The completeness of the circumstantial evidence 
against him was extraordinary," said Walters, to whom 
the legal aspects of the case appealed. “Personally I am 
inclined to blame Holymead himself for the predicament 
in which he was placed. If he had gone to the police 
after the murder was discovered, told them the story 
of his visit to Sir Horace that night, and invited in- 
vestigation into the truth of it, all would have been 
well." 

“No," said Crewe in a voice which indicated a de- 
termination not to have himself absolved at the ex- 
pense of another. “The fact that he did not do what 
he ought to have done does not mitigate my sin of hav- 
ing had the wrong man arrested. The mistake I made 
was in not going to see him before the warrant was taken 
out. If I had had a quiet talk with him I think I would 
have been able to discover a flaw in my case against 
340 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


34i 

him. What made me confident it was flawless was the 
fact that both his wife and her French cousin believed 
him to be guilty. Mademoiselle Chiron followed Holy- 
mead from the country on the 18th of August with the in- 
tention of averting a tragedy. She arrived at Rivers- 
brook too late for that, but in time to see Sir Horace 
expire, and naturally she thought that Holymead had shot 
him. When Mrs. Holymead realised that I also suspected 
her husband and had accumulated some evidence against 
him, she sent Mademoiselle Chiron to me with a concocted 
story of how the murder had been committed by a more 
or less mythical husband belonging to Mademoiselle’s 
past. Ostensibly the reason for the visit of this extremely 
clever French girl was to induce me to deal with Rolfe, 
who had begun to suspect Mrs. Holymead of some com- 
plicity in the crime ; but the real reason was to convince 
me that I was on the wrong track in suspecting Holy- 
mead. Of course she said nothing to me on that point. 
She produced evidence which convinced me that she 
was in the room when Sir Horace died, and, as I was 
quite sure that she believed Holymead to be guilty, I 
felt that there could be no doubt whatever of his guilt.” 

“It is one of the most extraordinary cases on record 
— one of the most extraordinary trials,” said Walters. 
“You blame yourself for having had Holymead arrested 
but you have more than redeemed yourself by the final* 
discovery when Kemp was in the witness-box that he 
was the guilty man. That was an inspiration.” 

“Hardly that,” said Crewe with a smile. “I knew 
when he swore that he had seen Sir Horace leaning out 
of the library window that he was lying. After the 
murder was discovered I inspected the house and grounds 
carefully, and one of the first things of which I took 
a mental note was the fact that the foliage of the chest- 
nut-tree completely hid the only window of the library.” 

“Ah, but there is a difference between knowing Kemp 
was committing perjury and knowing that he was the 
guilty man.” 


342 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


“There is at least a distinct connection between the 
two facts,” said Crewe, who after his mistake in regard 
to Holymead was reluctant to accept, any praise. 
“Kemp’s description of the way in which Sir Horace was 
dressed showed that he had seen him. The inference 
that Kemp had been inside the house was irresistible. 
Sir Horace had arrived home at 7 o’clock and it was not 
likely that Kemp would hang about Riversbrook — the 
scene of a prospective burglary — until after dark, which 
at that time of the year would be about 8.30. He must 
have seen Sir Horace after dark, and in order to be 
able to say how the judge was dressed he must have 
seen him at close quarters. The rest was a matter 
of simple deduction. Kemp inside the house listen- 
ing to the angry interview between Holymead and 
Fewbanks — Kemp with his hatred of the judge who 
had killed his daughter in the dock and with his 
desire to do Holymead a good turn — I had previously 
had proof of that from my boy Joe, whom you have 
seen. Besides Kemp fitted into my reconstruction of the 
tragedy on the vital question of time. How long did 
Sir Horace live after being shot? The medical opinions 
I was able to obtain on the point varied, but after sifting 
them I came to the conclusion that though he might 
have lived for half an hour, it was more probable that 
he had died within ten minutes of being hit.” 

“How is that vital?” asked Walters, who was keenly 
interested in understanding how Crewe had arrived at 
his conviction of Kemp’s guilt. 

“Holymead’s appointment with Sir Horace at Rivers- 
brook was for 9.30 p. m. The letter found in Sir Hor- 
ace’s pocket-book fixed that time. It was exactly 11 p. m. 
when he got into a taxi at Hyde Park Corner after 
his visit to Riversbrook. On that point the driver of 
the taxi was absolutely certain. I was so anxious for 
• him to make it 11.30 that I went to see him twice about 
it. Assuming that Holymead arrived at Riversbrook 
at 9.30, I allowed half an hour for his angry interview 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


343 


with Sir Horace, half an hour for the walk from Rivers- 
brook to Hampstead Tube station, and half an hour for 
the journey from Hampstead to Hyde Park Corner, which 
would have involved a change at Leicester Square. As I 
could not indpce the driver of the taxi to make Holy- 
mead’s appearance at Hyde Park Corner 11.30 instead of 
11, I had to admit that Holymead must have left Rivers- 
brook at 10. But it was 10.30 according to Mademoiselle 
Chiron when she found Sir Horace dying on the floor of 
the library. Therefore if Holymead did the shooting, the 
victim’s death agonies must have lasted half an hour or 
more. Medically that was not impossible, but somewhat 
improbable. But a meeting between Kemp and Sir Hor- 
ace after Holymead had gone filled in the blank in time. 
That came home to me yesterday when Kemp was in 
the witness-box committing perjury in his determination 
to get Holymead off. I take it that the interview be- 
tween Kemp and his victim lasted about 20 minutes. 
Therefore Sir Horace was shot about 10.20; certainly be- 
fore 10.30, for Mademoiselle heard no shots while near- 
ing the house.” 

“You have worked it out very ingeniously,” said 
Walters. “You must find the work of crime detection 
very fascinating. I am afraid that if I had been in 
your place — that is if I had known as much about the 
tragedy as you do — when Kemp was in the witness-box 
yesterday, I would not have seen anything more in his 
evidence than the fact that he was committing perjury 
in order to help Holymead.” 

“I think you would,” said Crewe. “These discoveries 
come to one naturally as the result of training one’s mind 
in a particular direction.” 

“They come to you, but they wouldn’t come to me,” 
said Walters with a smile. “But do you think Kemp’s 
story of how Sir Horace was shot is literally true? Do 
you think Sir Horace got in the first shot and then tried 
to fire again? If that is so, I don’t see how they can 


344 


THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY 


hope to convict Kemp of murder — a jury would not go 
beyond a verdict of manslaughter in such a case.” 

‘‘You handled Kemp so well that he was too excited 
to tell anything but the truth/’ said Crewe. “Sir Horace 
fired first and missed — the bullet which Chippenfield re- 
moved from the wall of the library shows that — and he 
pulled the trigger again but the cartridge which had 
been in the revolver for a considerable time, probably 
for years, missed fire. Here is a silent witness to the 
truth of that part of Kemp’s story.” 

Crewe produced from a waistcoat pocket one of the 
four cartridges he had removed from the revolver Ma- 
demoiselle Chiron had handed to him and he placed it on 
the table. On the cap of the cartridge was a mark where 
the hammer had struck without exploding the powder. 


THE END 


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